


You.

by APurpleAvacado



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Crime, Implied Underage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, King!Erwin, M/M, Making this up as I go along mostly, More characters might be added, Much trouble to be had, Mystery, Poor people, Prince!Armin, Prince!Reiner, Princess!Annie, Princess!Historia, Royalty, implied prostitution, rating may increase, some violence, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APurpleAvacado/pseuds/APurpleAvacado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kingdom fresh out of war sees the return of its soldiers and its crown Prince, which while good for the Kingdom, is bad for the criminal underworld, or more specifically...Bertholdt. The increase in security means eating will get trickier, after all. </p><p>Bertholdt didn't think life could get much worse. Of course, he had a tendency to be proven wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bread.

The day was warm, not that it mattered. He was hungry again, which wasn't unusual. He had been hungry for years, and he wasn't the only one. The warm bread in his hands was a treat. He had out-manoeuvred the guards, again, something that wasn't unusual, but of course, he didn't always get away scot-free, even if he didn't get put behind bars on a frequent basis. Panting, sweat pouring down his forehead and down his back, scratchy linen shirt clinging to his back, uncomfortable and almost suffocating, he glanced around before slipping into a familiar alleyway.

Beating down on him, the morning sun did nothing to help him as the exertions he had taken to get this meal pushed him to his limits. Slumping against a nearby wall he allowed himself a little smile, bread clutched tightly in his hands. “Bertholdt!” a familiar voice sounded, making him jump and jerk upright. 

“Ymir,” he breathed as the woman poked her head out an open window, the glass cracked “ah...” he continued weakly, his breathlessness stealing his words.

“Shut up and get inside.” She said, ducking back inside the building before he could respond. Ymir was not company he usually kept, but then...he hadn't really chosen it. She had found him one day and stuck to him for reasons he didn't particularly want to know. She was secretive by nature and her general countenance was intimidating to say the least. Her hazel eyes were almost perpetually narrowed defensively, if she wasn't busy being smug about something. What she had to be smug about most of the time, Bertholdt didn't know.

So, gulping, Bertholdt let out a final, steadying breath before he made his way towards the window. Reluctantly, he passed the bread through the window, Ymir practically snatching it from his hands, leaving him to feel bereft and wanting. He said nothing of it as he lifted a long and thin stick of a leg through the window and ducking his head low to slip beneath the frame. “If this tastes of your sweat again, I'll be pissed.” Ymir huffed as she disappeared into the next room, hopping over a gap in the floorboards that had given away to rot at some point in the past. 

“Then maybe next time you should get the food.” Bertholdt said with a frown, just loud enough to carry into the other room. Ymir let out a bark of a laugh as he too, followed her. The building was old and had been abandoned for years...and no-one was quite sure how long, but the marks on the front door marked the house as condemned. Illness had passed through the house, Bertholdt was sure, and no-one had come to reclaim it. 

Glancing around, Bertholdt was pleased to see everyone was accounted for “Eren,” he started as he sat down beside Ymir in the empty room, decorated only with old wood that had fallen from the walls and ceiling, the paintwork faded and every inch of it dusty, but the group had done their best to clean it up some. “Did you and Mikasa get water?” 

“I did,” the woman said from where she said next to her brown-haired companion. The ebony-haired girl was a little scary at times, especially where Eren was concerned – the fact she had spoken at all meant failure of some kind. “Eren wouldn't get up this morning.”

“It's over there,” Eren grumbled, gesturing to the corner of the room, where a bucket sat with a small wooden ladle set inside, floating precariously on top of the almost certainly filthy water, threatening to slip to the floor at any time as the handle hung over the edge of the bucket. “I tried to sieve it.”

Dirty. Bertholdt frowned, but nodded. There were probably too many guards at the well in the town centre that morning. He looked down at his lap, reaching to toy with the frayed rim of his shirt. If only he could find a needle and thread...almost all of them needed to have their clothes fixed. Eren's shirt had been torn at the sleeve weeks ago because of a confrontation he had gotten into. Some other thugs had tried to take food from him. If Mikasa hadn't been around, they would have, too. The stoic girl had holes in her skirt where splinters and broken wood had tugged at her it. Bertholdt toyed with his clothes so often that he had had to turn up his shirt several times, so it hardly ever managed to conceal his flat stomach and bony hips most of the time. It would be worse if he ever managed to get around to fixing it this time. A new shirt was on his list of things to steal. Ymir's shirt were threadbare at the elbows, but that was all. He could try to patch it up with the scraps of cloth Bertholdt had taken to asking the group to collect if they ever saw any. Of course. Bertholdt had thought it was about time he began to sew some of that material to the rim of his shirt, if he could not steal one.

“Sasha and Connie aren't coming are they?” Bertholdt asked softly. Sasha and Connie kept to themselves more often then not – they made an efficient team when it came to grabbing food on a frequent basis. Sometimes they would come to them if they couldn't get a meal of their own, and sometimes they would trade something with what Bertholdt would very loosely term his family, if they could not obtain food. They were friendly of course, and tended to stay with them for hours at a time until they had to leave for one reason or another.

“Who cares.” Ymir piped up as she began to tear at the bread in her hands, off-handedly chucking food in the group's general direction as she focused on getting the portions as equal as possible. She wasn't counting the pair into the division of the bread. Bertholdt withheld a sigh, guilty that he was almost glad it was the case. It was always kind of a pain when hey showed up, wanting food. Ymir and Mikasa refused to share, and the oriental woman refused to let Eren share his own food. She was determined not to let that boy suffer. Bertholdt didn't necessary care why, but it fell to him to keep up their admittedly beneficial relationship with the pair. There was an awful lot of back scratching going on between the two groups. Of course, that meant he lost most, if not all of his portion of food for that day. It didn't matter though, Sasha and Connie always paid him back for it.

Catching piece of bread in his hands at last, Bertholdt immediately took it into his mouth, and chewed hurriedly – he rest of the group had fallen silent, focused on their meal. The bread was heaven to him, and he couldn't help but let out a pleased sigh through his nose, even as the crust scratched at his dry throat. Hungry as he was, he couldn't be bothered to chew properly. He desperately wanted to feel the weight of food in his stomach. Everything, in that moment, was good. He couldn't help but smile around his bread as he yanked another piece off and swallowed hurriedly.

Beside him, Ymir laughed “You look like you're about to have an orgasm!” She said through laughter, and Bertholdt blushed ducking his head low. He chose not to respond, shoving bread in his mouth and chewing resolutely.

“Lay off, Ymir.” Eren piped up, obviously irritated “He hasn't eaten for two days.”

At that, Ymir scoffed “It's his fault for sharing with Connie and Sasha so much.”

“It's hard for everyone right now – even them.” It was true, Bertholdt thought, as he glanced up just in time to see Mikasa nod once in agreement. Lately there had been an increased presence of soldiers in the city. It seemed like they had begun to filter home again...the war was probably over, or at least very nearly ended. It was only going to get harder once they resumed normal duties as the city guard and palace guard. For the past five years, law enforcement had been somewhat lax, because most soldiers got deployed at some point or another, but of course, there were still enough men around to protect the home front. It just meant that small-time criminals like himself were left largely to their own devices, but now that they were returning, Bertholdt couldn't help but wonder how his little family was going to adjust.

It was entirely possible that one or both of them had run into trouble, but if that were the case, then at the very least, he would have thought Sasha or Connie would come to them. Were that day to come however, Bertholdt would take that as his cue to leave. He preferred to be alone, anyway. 

“So, do you think we won?” Eren after a long, almost uncomfortable silence, hoping, no doubt, to shift the heavy atmosphere that had filled the room – perhaps, Bertholdt thought, everyone's train of thought had been similar to his own.

“Probably,” Ymir said with a shrug “probably would have heard about it much faster if we'd lost.” That was true enough, Bertholdt agreed mentally, bad news tended to travel faster than the good. “Probably waiting to make some big announcement.” then she paused “Hey,” She started up suddenly, capturing the group's attention “Isn't Prince Reiner out on the field?”

Bertholdt felt his throat tighten.

“Yeah.” Eren confirmed nonchalantly “Why?”

“They are waiting for him to return.” Mikasa said, as if she had known all along, which Bertholdt wouldn't have put past her. She had a tendency to withhold information until it became of use. 

“I guess that makes sense.” Eren agreed, thoughtful. “Maybe he's going to be the one to break the news.”

“Unless he dies on the way back.” Ymir snickered.

“Don't say that.” Bertholdt said, before he could stop himself, tone raspy with the constriction of his throat. The stick of a boy couldn't quite breath.

Ymir fell silent at that, and turned her attention to Bertholdt completely, and he shrunk away, ducking his head down again and nibbling at his bread, to keep his mouth busy – he wanted to stay occupied for as long as possible, so as much as he wanted to, Bertholdt had to resist the urge to simply shove the rest of the bread in his mouth.

“Oh, what, you're suddenly a monarchist?” Ymir snapped pointedly, making Bertholdt wince.

Of course, after a moment, he frowned and lowered his hunk of bread into his lap, filthy fingers tugging a shred of bread from a chewed-upon corner. “I have never said a word about the monarchy...” Bertholdt muttered as he shoved a piece of bread between his lips “So I could be, for all you know.”

Ymir put her arm on her leg, putting her weight on it as she leant forward, and he could feel the heat of her gaze upon him. He felt himself sweating all over again. “You look nervous, Berty.” She said, with an almost malicious note to her tone. “What do you care about them, huh?” She asked, drawing out the inquisitive noise in that detestable way that she had, and it grated on Bertholdt's nerves.

“Don't call me 'Berty'.” Bertholdt snapped lifting his head to meet Ymir's gaze with a furrowed brow and a narrowed gaze. They stared at each other for a time, silently challenging one another. Bertholdt was happy to let many things go but he hated it when people tried to give him nicknames. All but two, anyway.

Bertholdt was the first to look away. A moment of silence followed before Ymir scoffed and shoved the rest of her food in her mouth

The room had settled into an awkward silence – even Eren didn't dare speak. Bertholdt rarely got angry, and no-one liked dealing with Ymir's temper on a good day, let alone a day like this, when she was already incensed. Mikasa simply sat in perpetual silence until suddenly, cheer erupted from the street, and the group turned their attention to it, their ears angled towards the noise.

Eren was the first to stand, jumping to his feet and fleeing into the next room to the window through which Bertholdt had entered, slipping out hurriedly. His hands were empty of his bread, as he had finished it some time ago. Mikasa, true to her fashion also hopped to her feet and followed diligently after Eren. Bertholdt didn't want to go, but when Ymir sighed loudly and pulled herself to her feet as if the effort to stand was too much in itself, and slunk out of the room, Bertholdt mirrored her sigh, shoving the rest of his food unceremoniously in his mouth before he too got to his feet. 

It didn't take him long to catch up to the others at the mouth of the alley. Crowds of people lined the street, some people hanging out of windows. Eren and Mikasa were perched on a nearby crate, empty of its contents, and Ymir had disappeared, no doubt making her way to the front of the crowd. Tall as he was, Bertholdt didn't have to make much of an effort to get a decent view. A carriage was making its way down the street – painted white and gold and carved more finely than anything Bertholdt had ever seen in his life. He resisted the urge to gape, despite marvelling at the sight of the procession of soldiers leading the carriage, as well as the four fine pale horses that pulled it. The Royal crest of the founder of the kingdom – Queen Sina – was painted onto the doors of the carriage. 

However, it was not the crest that caught Bertholdt's eye, but rather the sight of the person within the carriage, who, rather then sit still within, subdued and regal, he leant out of the window of the carriage door, waving and grinning. Bertholdt's eyes widened. He recognised that short blond hair and the golden brown eyes that were so steely, but in their own way, so kind. He recognised that frame, and gulped.

It had been years.

Turning, Bertholdt ducked his head and skulked back into the alley behind him. Now, at least he knew what the commotion was about.


	2. Hay.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt muses upon responsibilities, and attempts to do right by his 'family'.

The following morning Bertholdt pulled himself from his bed of straw, which had become damp and had begun to rot at last. He tried to keep it as long as possible, because it was a long way to go to the outskirts of the city, just to find decent bedding – within the city, it was sold and bought so quickly on account of so many rich folks owning horses to feed and care for. Bertholdt often had no choice but to venture into nearby farms, if he was desperate. It was one of the only tasks be performed for his own benefit...it was not easy to gather hay and lug it back home. He had tried once, to get some for Ymir, when it had just been the two of them, and he had almost been shot for trespassing.

It wasn't unusual for a farmer to have a crossbow, or even traps strewn about his farm land to shoot or catch predators...and thieves.

He sat there for a moment, trying to ignore the stench of old hay. Perhaps a trip to the river would not go amiss. He hadn't bathed for weeks, and probably looked worse than a common pauper. He might even wash his clothes, however reluctant he was to sit by the riverside naked as he let his clothes dry in the sun. At least there was a bridge he could hide under. At least it would be safer to go in the morning. There were people out there worse than him, after all, and he had encountered a few.

Bertholdt was already dressed, seeing no point in exposing his body to more flees than strictly necessary, not that they wouldn't just stick to his clothes. It was another reason that he discouraged the others from using hay...he would have joined them had he the endurance to sleep on the cold hard ground alone. Bertholdt could not find sleep easily, and when he did, he usually slept like the dead because of it. He had woken up more than once to Ymir laughing her ass off at him. He was not a restful sleeper, often too full of anxiety. He would let her laugh, and scold her for scaling the stairs of their little wreck of home. 

When they had found it, Ymir found herself with a trapped leg, her weight causing the rotted wood to give away to rot. She had a limp in her step for at least a week. He ignored his own advice for the sake of his personal comfort. He did not like to sleep in the company of others. That sort of thing had found him in some very unpleasant situations, although more often than not, he could escape. 

Forcing himself to stand, Bertholdt stretched, bone tired as he was, he hardly registered his limbs cracking at the strain. Bertholdt often found himself in this situation, and more than being hungry, he hated being tired. More than being hungry, his exhaustion gave way to more emotion than he would ordinarily display. Some days, it was all he could do to keep from crying from the frustration of it all, the anger and the sorrow. He would provoke Ymir on those days, even Eren. Sometimes, he just wanted the boy to punch him so he could snap out of it. He wanted Ymir to distract him. Mikasa might even pitch in if she felt Bertholdt had pushed too many of Eren's buttons...of which there were a great deal.

Perhaps it was self-destructive, and unwise, given the circumstances. The cuts and bruises were a sign of weakness, and an invitation to the rougher criminals on the street to...impose themselves upon him in some way, be it stealing what little he had, or ask him a favour or two. Of course, if things got too rough, he had never met anyone faster than him. Bertholdt was good at picking and choosing his battles, and that often meant no battles at all, if he could help it.

Ymir carried a blade – two in fact. Eren and Mikasa also had them. Another reason he didn't want to spend the night in a room with them. Leaving his room – a tiny old thing with more floorboards missing than plaster on the walls – Bertholdt began to pick his way down the stairs, missing steps now and then and sticking to the corners of others. There were cracks in the roof of his room, which didn't help Bertholdt on exceptionally cold nights. It was only during winter that the boy would seek alternative accommodation, secure places, but not at all savoury. Come spring he would try to make it on his own again, but Ymir would find him. He had often suspected she kept tabs on him during the winter months...and he would end up getting through the money he had made much faster than he had intended. No matter where he hid it, Ymir would find it and pilfer it for her own reasons. She was never one for sharing personal matters, but then, neither was Bertholdt, so he didn't mind. What he did mind was an empty stomach that came too soon, although his anger never lasted. He could not focus on his resentment when all he wanted to do was get something in his belly.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Bertholdt ran a hand through his filthy, matted hair, pulling out what he could of the straw that had settled there during the night, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously. From the sounds – or lack there of – that filled the house, Bertholdt was quick to deduce that everyone had left for the day. The group went about their own business in the day, the fruits of which were rarely seen. Mikasa brought the most money in – she and Eren worked as a team, Mikasa slipping her delicate hand into the pockets of those that Eren distracted, with some ridiculous antic or another. Ymir..he wasn't sure what Ymir did with her time. She assured him that one day, the things she worked on would come in very handy. The group worked on the assumption that Bertholdt would provide the food, and if not food than money. 

Mikasa and Eren were trying to save money to get off the streets, so they were not willing to share much of what they gathered. For some reason, Ymir did not try to steal from them. It was probably Mikasa's doing. Ymir was not intimidated by Eren in the least. Bertholdt had seen Mikasa break a man's wrist for attempting to pick up a coin she had dropped once. Whether or not he was just trying to be kind and help her, he did not know. 

Bertholdt did not begrudge them their desire for something...more. Something safe. Yet, sometimes it frustrated him. He felt obligated to carry the group from day to day, tolerating their selfishness and their unwillingness to help Bertholdt provide for the group. As much as this company existed together, they were not necessarily a team. It was every man for themselves, in the end, no matter how some pretended otherwise...Bertholdt himself included. 

Sighing, Bertholdt made his way to the bucket of water that Mikasa had collected the day before, and took the ladle into his hands as he knelt before it, scooping it up and peering at it, cautiously. Hesitantly he lifted the ladle to his lips and took several – tentative – tiny sips of the liquid. He never drank much, and when he did it was just enough to satiate his initial thirst. 

Of course, with that thought in mind, Bertholdt stood, and turned to leave the living room and exit into the room on the far side, slipping through the window with practised ease. Bertholdt kept his head down as he slipped from alley to alley, making his way towards the centre of town. He hated to venture there, but he knew that the well there was the only source of clean water for miles around. Bertholdt had always been impressed by the fact that it had sustained the city for as long as it had.

If the city guard was lax that morning, Bertholdt knew he could double back and fetch the bucket to replace the water...if not, he would have wasted a trip. He wanted to check first before he let Mikasa's efforts go to waste. Of course, he knew that losing time to retrieve the bucket was the downside to that plan...but he thought that it would be better than lugging a full pail of water around. Making judgement calls...was not something Bertholdt excelled at, not really.

Bertholdt tried to keep to the alleyways, but sometimes it was simply impossible. Side roads became increasingly sparse the further into town Bertholdt went, and soon he resorted to pressing himself into the side of buildings, trying to look as casual as possible in the face of the crowds of finely-dressed people. Not everyone was well-dressed of course, but a majority were merchants or nobles and few of the ignoble, rough sorts that Bertholdt associated with, and was himself, according to society. Bertholdt was in with the night crowd.

As Bertholdt neared the town centre, dread began to fill him, settling into the pit of his stomach as the sound of hammers upon wood filled the air, and he gulped, peering around the corner of the building he was leant against. Eyes widening, Bertholdt cursed mentally, and pulled back. There were carpenters erecting what looked like a stage in the centre of the town square, stationed just behind the well. Of course, from the look of things, they had started early and the structure would be finished by that afternoon. Of course, it wasn't the carpenters that bothered him, but rather the guards stationed at almost every corner of the square, and more besides milling about. Either someone very important was going to hang, or the announcement that Ymir had mused upon was going to take place.

With a deep intake of breath through his mouth to steady his nerves, Bertholdt tried to calm himself, feelings the beginnings of a familiar sweat manifest upon his forehead. It appeared, Bertholdt despaired, that they were not to get any fresh water that day. He stood there long enough that soon, he noticed people whispering, glancing at him in what they thought was a surreptitious manner, and others blatantly stare – their gazes full of disapproval. Then he noticed the gaze of a woman – dress supported by her underskirts and her chest wrapped tightly in a remarkable bodice. She looked every inch the lady, and an ideal target for Mikasa and Eren, judging by the innately superior look she had plastered upon her face as she spoke to the guard beside her. 

Guard.

The guard! Bertholdt started, pushing himself up off the wall, his gaze never once leaving those of that brown-eyed woman. It was only when she gestured again with the closed fan in her gloved hand, and the guard began to head in his direction that he turned, ducking his head and hurrying back he way he had come. He tried to hurry, but remain as calm as he could as he walked away. 

But it was only when he heard a sharp “Hey!” which was louder than he expected, that he turned to see the guard jogging towards him, faster than he had thought the other would advance, that he panicked. Turning, Bertholdt shot off down the street, away from the town centre, and with another indistinguishable shout from the guard, Bertholdt knew he was being pursued.

Bertholdt almost thought he didn't have to worry, given that he was the fastest person he knew, save perhaps Connie, if he was not already on par with the shorter male. Of course..Bertholdt was more than familiar with the phrase 'Better the enemy that you know, than the enemy you don't.' And he did not know this enemy. So, Bertholdt pushed himself harder, rounding a corner quickly, glancing around as he did so, to see the soldier hot on his trail. He was closer than he ever wanted to be to a keeper of the peace ever again. 

There was another shout and suddenly, there was a flash beneath his feet and the sound of metal clattering to the floor. Bertholdt's eyes widened when he realised – the soldier had thrown his sword at his feet and it was all Bertholdt could do jump and avoid the blade as he clattered and spun where it has landed between his legs, although he was not lucky enough to save himself from being injured. He cried out when the tip of the sword pressed into the skin of his inner thigh and he cried out, gasping when he realised-

Pain shot through his ankle as his food landed awkwardly on the curve of the pavement and he fell into the road with a heavy thud, landing with the groan, the sword coming to a stop somewhere behind him. He groaned, but soon found himself struggling to get to his feet, but to no avail. 

He choked when he felt the collar of his shirt as it pressed into his neck tightly when the guard yanked him to his feet, hearing the distinct sound of cloth tearing, before abruptly shoving the boy into a nearby wall; choosing then to take Bertholdt by the neck and hold him there, his grasp unforgiving. Bertholdt's hand went immediately to the guard's trying to pry them off his as he struggled for breath. It was all he could do to keep his weight off his ankle.

The soldier's deep chestnut eyes were narrowed upon him, strong, unyielding features framed in sandy brown hair. Full lips were settled into a scowl “What do you think you're doing, huh?” The man questioned aggressively.

Bertholdt sweat profusely as he shook his head as much as he could “noth-” he gasped out, trying to pull the other's hand from his neck “nothi-ng..!”

The guard continued as if he had not heard the boy “Bothering good, upstanding citizens with your filth!” Bertholdt managed pull the other's hand away just long enough to suck in a good breath of air before that pressure was upon his neck again, full-force. 

“I didn-” Bertholdt half-whined through his breathlessness. Even if he could escape now, he would not get far in his current state. His palms and elbows and even his knees hurt from his rough landing. From the feel of it, his face hadn't been spared either. “pl-please..!” Bertholdt was beginning to feel light-headed. He really regretted trying to be subtle about his initial attempt to flee the town centre. He should have ran like Hell was after him. 

The guard scoffed and released his hold on Bertholdt's neck, instead opting to grasp at the collar of his now-ruined shirt. Shoving him against the wall as Bertholdt tried to regain his breath, knocking it out of him again momentarily. Bertholdt gripped at the man's arm, at this point more for support than any particular desire to get away. 

“Then don't go poking your dirty little nose where it ain't wanted!” The guard warned, before delivering a swift blow to Bertholdt's gut, and allowing the pauper to slip to his feet in silent agony. Bertholdt curled in upon himself as the Guard turned and walked away swiftly, collecting his sword as he went. The only consolation in that situation had been the fact that the guard hadn't known his face. If that had been the case, Bertholdt would have wound up with more than a twisted ankle, a (no doubt) bruising midsection and suffering various other minor ailments. All the same, Bertholdt couldn't help but let out a pained sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...this chapter was produced far more quickly than I anticipated...
> 
> A moment of inspiration struck me and I could not stop.


	3. Water.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A history lesson with a splash of trouble.

After picking himself up, Bertholdt was quick to leave the town centre, this time not even bothering to take the side-streets and alleyways, which, while safer during the day, were not without peril. The aching of his abused stomach had dulled, but he had not yet managed to uncurl himself completely as he walked with a limp in his step towards the riverside on the edge of the city. Stohess – Sina's capitol was a large city, for such a small kingdom, with a river running through a majority of the east side. Most of the clean water was held in ponds and fountains, when it was it was not within the well – in the upper-class part so the city where riff-raff could not venture without consequence. The palace contained one of the only other wells within the city. Stohess was actually built upon a large network of underground tunnels, through which streams and lakes ran and Bertholdt was not quite sure how far those caverns stretched. The wells were strategically placed and the city was built around them upon its founding by one of the three Queens of olde. Sina was the oldest of three sisters and had a weakness for grandeur. Her kingdom was the smallest, but because she aimed to build an attractive city, trade came easily and riches followed.

Sina's military forces at the time were exceptional, and small though her kingdom was, she had nothing to fear. Bertholdt however believed that those values of strength and nobility had turned to nothing but greed and brutality. Of course, he had just been assaulted by a no doubt battle-hardened soldier. Bertholdt had not recognised him as one of the city guard. He had been wearing the standard breastplate with a white cloak that sported the City Guard sigil – a shield with a unicorn's likeness upon it, in pale green and white, noble and majestic – it would have been typical of the queen to have picked something so fanciful, and in its way, absurd.

Queen Rose's sigil was similar in the way that it too contained a shield as all three sisters did. Yet this sigil was much more literal in the sense that is contained two simple red roses entwined together by delicate white vines. It was her kingdom, why not emphasise the fact? Trost was the largest of all the capitols in the three kingdoms, although it was much simpler than that of Sina's own. Queen Rose was by all accounts, a woman very much geared towards practicality and safety – safety that she believed, was in numbers. Her army was simply dubbed 'The Garrison' because of its large numbers being stationed within a large, formidable fort. The city itself was encircled by the highest of walls in all the three kingdoms. The city itself could have been called a fort, but every wall has a weak point. Rose's army was the largest of the three kingdoms, but it was not renowned for its skill the way Sina's army had been (and in many ways still was), as they only accepted the best of the best into what Sina's people had dubbed 'the Military Police'. No, Rose's advantage within any war as its overwhelming numbers. Bertholdt didn't know much of anything about Rose, but he knew it was reputed to be a friendly place, despite it's foreboding countenance. Of course, because of all that security, it meant that the Garrison's training had slackened, which Bertholdt now realised was a very large contributing factor to their recent defeat in the war against Sina and its people.

Maria however was perhaps the most out-going of all the sisters – the youngest – and although she had the largest heart of all the siblings, was inexperienced in the ways of ruling. Her attempts to encourage trade failed more often than not, which lead hers to become the poorest of the kingdoms, but that did not deter her or weaken her resolve to create a society in which its citizens could could exercise individuality with no repercussions. Her city was simple and was the most successful in becoming self-sufficient, because like her, her people were determined to live a peaceful and happy life. Shiganshina was not as peaceful as it once was as crops failed frequently and often food was scarce, and because of this many people were left jobless. Of course, it was not all hopeless. There was unity there, even if trust was somewhat lacking at times. Her people were largely kind and helpful, although they were the most sceptical when it came to trusting outsiders. More than the high walls of Trost, the isolated cities and farmland left cities without much in the way of outside trade and visitors. Maria was made up mostly on wide plains, forests and rivers, to accommodate her love of nature. A small percentage of the land became farmland, which served to feed its people, but most of it simply symbolised Maria's belief in freedom and exploration.

Her army was a strong one, talented in ways that even Sina's army was not. Yet, the population of Maria had taken on a trait of what seemed to be pure recklessness, which was sometimes near suicidal. It was that trait that became their undoing. It was a smaller army than Sina's, massively disproportionate to its kingdom's size, but talented though they were, their recklessness against Sina's number and rigorous training regime lead to a long and hard-won battle against Maria's army. It was a shame, in Bertholdt's mind that such a city, its army's sigil known as 'The Wings of Freedom' – the very embodiment of the things Maria herself wanted to achieve – had been so cruelly trampled. Of course, King Erwin of Sina had a great mind and it was he who ultimately ensured Sina's victory.

The war had started because the tension between the three kingdoms that had been rising for as long as Bertholdt could remember, had snapped. Rumour had it that the straw that broke the camel's back had been Rose's refusal to marry the Princess Historia to Prince Reiner, in order to form an alliance of sorts with one another. Sina threatened war and Rose called to Maria for aid, who provided it. Now, Reiner was sure to marry Historia regardless, depending on whether or not Erwin saw fit to go through with the plan even after the war. Bertholdt had heard in the past that Historia was very beautiful, so he wouldn't put it past Reiner to want to marry her. Who could resist a pretty woman, right? Marrying Historia off was another hold Erwin would have on the Kingdom of Rose – Bertholdt was not ignorant of politics, but knowing King Erwin, he was liable to decide on that course of action. Erwin had all three Kingdoms in the palm of his hand, so he could do as he wished. That said, Erwin had always been unpredictable.

It was not Bertholdt's place to deal with politics or meddle with the affairs of the rich and powerful. He had no right - not with his standing in society – amongst the lowest of the low, and some would have it that he was worse than that. All he had wanted was water, and because Sina was such a pig-headed place, ruled by those who misunderstood the intentions of the poor, he was unable to get some. He was a dirty street-urchin and an eyesore, what did he deserve water for? Bertholdt would have joined the army, but circumstances made that all too risky, and it wasn't because he was afraid of dying. To be frank, at this point he hardly cared at all, but for some reason, he kept going and did not stop. Bertholdt knew he was simply not the type to give up.

In his younger years, Bertholdt would hop from place to place in the cold winter months, and had on occasion been taken in by a kind citizen or a servant to spend the night in the kitchen or by the fire. More often than not he was given a meal in the morning before being sent back out onto the street again. If he was lucky he might have been given food to last him a day or two, three if he could control himself. As he grew older, it became harder to obtain help in that fashion. Sometimes he might have received food in exchange for work (the proportion of the aforementioned food somewhat lacking in the face of the amount of work he had to do), and if something went wrong he was sent packing, usually with a new bruise or two and no nourishment to speak of.

Now, of course, long since a man by all accounts, Bertholdt had no-one to rely upon but himself. It was this thought alone that kept Bertholdt moving, forcing one foot in front of the other. Help would not come for him and he could not wait for the charity of others, nor could he wait to be singled out as weak and vulnerable. His ankle was on fire and all he could think about was soaking it in the cool waters of the river as the sun beat down upon him. When at last the river came into view, in all its murky glory, the pain in Bertholdt's gut had subsided and he could not help but smile through the pain that shot through his ankle every time he put weight on it. Bertholdt tried to hurry, grimacing as he went before he finally dropped to the hard-packed ground by the riverside and after a moment, lay back against a patch of rich, healthy green grass behind him. He sighed and lay there, silent and unmoving as he panted for breath, the only other sound being the wind as it rustled the riverside reeds and grass and the leaves in the trees. It was a cooler day for it, thanks to autumn approaching swiftly. The weather was becoming somewhat erratic. The wind seemed to nullify the warmth the sun battled to give the people of Sina. Bertholdt almost laughed at the thought. The sun was the only thing warm about Sina, and he would leave, if he could afford to do so. Ymir's tendency to steal from him made saving somewhat difficult.

There was a strong stone bridge not far from where he was sprawled across the ground. He did not worry about passers-by, for they were few and far between. There was very little to the east of any importance. It was almost midday when he made it to the river and by the time he began to move again, sitting up to remove his ill-fitting shirt before carefully removing his soft-soled, soft leather boots that were tied to his legs but a few bit of thin leather straps that wrapped around his calves from ankle to knee. He sucked in a breath sharply as he was forced to disturb his ankle once again. As well as soothing his ankle, Bertholdt realised it was the perfect opportunity to bathe. It was not yet cold enough that he should begin to look for lodging elsewhere, so a wash in the river would have to do for the time being; it had been so long since he had done it last. Frankly, he had been putting it off on account of deeming it unnecessary. Besides, the grimy street rats were much less appealing targets; most other criminals assumed they had nothing worth giving (or taking, rather). It was a survival strategy that Bertholdt employed, but given that he had just been assaulted by a member of the military police, Bertholdt decided he had gotten a little too filthy. It was never a good sign when the rich were so perturbed that they actually paid attention and did something about the unpleasantness before them.

Undoing the laces of his trousers, Bertholdt allowed them to slip to the floor as he stood, before he gingerly stepped out of them, hissing again when he had to put weight back onto his ankle. Bertholdt did not bother with underwear – it was expensive and if he ever had money, he would sooner eat than add one more item of clothing to the list of things that he would have to maintain with things he did not possess. The only undergarments that he had owned had fallen apart years ago, when he was a boy and had not replaced them since. Besides, his trousers protected his modesty well enough.

Bertholdt tucked his boots between two large boulders before he slipped into the water a straying closer to the shadow of the bridge, clothes in hand so that he might be ready to hide from view should anyone show their face. Bertholdt went to his knees in the water, feeling the sand and clay to his knees and between his toes, putting his trousers to one side on the riverbank as he slipped his shirt into the water and began to wash it as best he could, rubbing the fabric together in the water in order to get rid of as much filth as he could. He went as it for several minutes before he finally gave up and set his damp shirt aside (after ringing it out) onto another boulder by the water, settled beneath the afternoon sun. He did the same to his trousers, taking care not to tear at the rip in his trousers that the soldier's sword had made earlier that day as he tried to get as much blood as he could out of the old linen trousers. He really would hate to walk around with a noticeably torn clothes, not that his shirt had gone without rough treatment. It seemed to Bertholdt that he really would have to...obtain, new clothing sooner than he had planned. Unless he could find thread very soon. He believed he still had a needle somewhere.

Once the trousers were taken care of, Bertholdt was finally able to take care of himself, dunking his head beneath the water and rubbing vigorously, yanking at his matted hair to get the clumps of dirt and tangles out of his wild and filthy locks. By the time he was through, he couldn't say he didn't hurt. He scrubbed at his arms roughly and forced the dirt from his skin. His torso and neck received the same treatment although Bertholdt was dismayed at the tenderness he felt there. He would bruise, he was sure. Bertholdt bruised easily, and when he did the bruises remained for a long while, and tended to invite more. He scrubbed at his back as best he could before moving on to his nether regions and legs, sparing several minutes to massage his ankle to ease the pain, with little success.

He was just washing his face, balanced precariously on one leg as the river water ran by gently when he heard a voice. “Bertholdt!” it called, and he recognised it immediately. Connie Springer. Bertholdt had to suppress a groan when he saw the shorter male slip into his peripheral vision. Unable to escape, he turned to regard Connie silently, the other grinning faintly from where he stood on the bank, hands hidden behind his back as he watched Bertholdt. The taller boy did not have much to be shy about, but the unabashed way in which Connie looked at him made him a little nervous. “You know,” Connie started again, upon realising he was not going to receive a verbal response “you look different clean”. Rolling his eyes, Bertholdt turned away and continued to wash his face, more for something to do than necessity. He couldn't work out whether or be insulted or not. “In a good way!” The shorter man hurried to say “like, I don't know...your complexion is more even. I can't explain, you- you look kind of shiny.”

Bertholdt furrowed his brow then, and turned to look at Connie once more, unable to keep from blurting out “Shiny?” incredulously.

Connie just shrugged, almost aggressively as he looked away, his frustration evident “I said I couldn't explain!”

There was a brief pause before Bertholdt smiled kindly, although his expression remained as guarded as ever. “Did you mean 'warm'?” He asked quietly. That was one he had heard before.

At that, Connie started, turning towards Bertholdt with a little “yes!” he declared triumphantly, gesturing at the other male, finger extended to emphasise his point. “That's exactly it! You look like you've been sitting in the sun all day, and not rolling around in the mud.” Bertholdt would have to congratulate Connie on his ability to kill a compliment one of these days.

Bertholdt nodded slowly at that, before turning and limping his way towards Connie “do you mind turning around for a second?” He asked, and realising that Bertholdt was trying to get out of the water, he nodded, frowning a little as he heard the water splashing as Bertholdt stepped out of the river as a slight hiss. He waited for a moment longer before he turned, to find Bertholdt sitting on a bed of moss, one leg pressed to his chest while the other lay flat upon the ground. He would have been lying if he said he hadn't seen the slight limp in Bertholdt's step as he fumbled his way out of the river.

“What happened to you?” He asked bluntly, making his way towards Bertholdt, sitting in front of the other boy, facing his obviously swollen ankle. He reached for it and carefully set it into his lap, ignoring the brunette's slight protest. “Relax, I got a healer's touch!” He said with a little grin and a chuckle. This was actually the first time he'd seen Bertholdt so vulnerable...all naked and injured and stuff. He supposed he was lucky that it was a friend who had found him.

“Forgive me if I don't believe you..” Bertholdt muttered, twitching as Connie began to gently rub at the other's ankle in small circles. It was probably wiser to let it be, but Connie had had enough injuries like this to know that it would cause no harm. “Anyway, it was a guard...I was expelled from the town centre this morning.” He explained quietly with a frown, looking at his hands where they were clasped together in his lap.

“Oh,” Connie replied, in understanding “You got roughed up.”

“Very.”

“Why did you go?” Connie asked after a moment.

“Clean water.” Bertholdt replied with a frown “I loitered a little too long, I suppose.”

Connie nodded, it was not uncommon for street urchins to get chased off by the military police. Sometimes people had trouble grasping the fact that the water in the well was for everyone. “I guess you saw the stage then.” Out of the corner of his eye, Connie saw Bertholdt nod, so he continued “Apparently the Prince is going to make an announcement later today. The stage looked almost done when I saw it.” a pause “We should go.”

“I would rather not.”

Connie paused in his ministrations then, turning to Bertholdt with a frown “Why not?” He asked perhaps a little impatiently.

There was a pause “I want to get some work done.”

His shorter friend frowned “Nearing that time of year already, huh?” Bertholdt simply nodded “Thought so.” Connie's frown deepened “You know, you shouldn't do that. It's dangerous.”

Bertholdt scoffed “Right.” Bertholdt agreed “so why would I let Ymir or Mikasa do it?”

“Don't be stupid, Bert, Mik-”

“Don't call me that!”

“Bertholdt, then.” Connie snapped back just as sharply “Ymir and Mikasa are tough as nails, they can handle themselves.”

“And what if they wind up pregnant, huh?” Bertholdt countered “It won't matter how tough they are then.”

“Look, why don't I just pay you?” Connie asked impatiently, gently pushing Bertholdt's ankle off his lap as he got to his knees edging a little closer to the taller male.

Bertholdt sat up further, looking more than a little surprised “What?” He blurted out, obviously shocked.

“Yeah!” Connie said, turning to his own boots and pulling out a small pouch “I got some money today – I can pay you, you don't have to go find some stranger, and we can both go to the town centre tonight!” Connie shoved his money back into his boots before he moved again, and Bertholdt found himself flat on his back, Connie's hand on his shoulder, with his own hands pressed against Connie's clothed chest, looking bewildered and borderline fearful. “Come on, Bertholdt...what do you say?” Connie's hand was already travelling up his naked thigh.

Bertholdt forced himself to breath as evenly as possible. Connie had never done this before, and he was a little surprised that he would even dare. It was no secret what Bertholdt did over the winter, after all, Bertholdt didn't particularly want his 'family' to suffer too much. It was better to earn during the winter, then go after the slim pickings that winter had to offer. Of course, he could only look after them if he could find them, which was difficult, given that he knew all three members of his little clan moved around a lot during the winter. 

“I think you need to-” He flinched then and hissed, attempting to pull away from Connie even as the other sat up in surprise, glancing down and eyeing the raw and open flesh on Bertholdt's inner thigh.

“You're bleeding!” Connie announced “Shit, Bertholdt, why didn't you say anything!” Connie was quick then to pull his sleeve up over his hand and press it to the wound, and Bertholdt couldn't help but feel exceedingly awkward. Connie's hands were everywhere except where he wanted them to be, but at least he wasn't trying to proposition him any more.

“Because it wasn't important.”

“Not important?” Connie parroted incredulously “What if this gets infected, huh. You could die.”

“What's your point?” Bertholdt practically hissed, and Connie couldn't help himself as he lifted his hand and lay a single hard slap across Bertholdt's cheek, and watched the other fall to his elbow, letting out a cry of pain.

“You know people actually give a shit about you, right?” Connie snapped, returning to press his sleeve against the wound as Bertholdt sat up again, frowning, reaching up to feel at his sore cheek tentatively.

“People have a funny way of showing it if they do.” Bertholdt retorted sullenly, his gaze narrowing upon Connie pointedly.

“What.” Connie huffed “I was making a point.”

Several minutes went by after the pair had lapsed into an almost bitter silence. Bertholdt could not go anywhere until his clothes were dry and he could already tell that Connie was not going to leave his side. He vaguely wondered where Sasha was, but figured after a time that she was probably busy filching food for herself and Connie.

Bertholdt was not having a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the world-building, I tried to be sensible...
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	4. Reiner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter full of highs and lows, both literally and metaphorically.

The town square was full of life, both the rich and poor making an appearance. The stage had been completed and had stood empty for the past two hours. Connie had helped him along, dragging him to the centre. Injured as he as, he knew he couldn't have escaped Connie even if he wanted to. The Prince seemed to have taken up residence in a nearby Inn, waiting for the right time. Bertholdt wasn't exactly sure what was taking Prince Reiner so long, but...he wasn't Royalty, and he didn't have the authority to wile away other people's time, so what did he know? Bertholdt thought the behaviour selfish and borderline arrogant, but Bertholdt understood better than most how self-entitled the rich felt.

King Erwin wasn't like that – not really, and tended to have the people's best interests at heart, although sometimes he came off as cold, even aloof. Reiner was the opposite in that respect – he was kind and approachable. Bertholdt thought he was a little prone to foolishness on many counts. Many of the citizens loved him despite several instances in which Reiner had bitten off more than he could chew. He always fixed it in the end, but Reiner's mistakes tended to weigh on him. Reiner was a court favourite apparently, from what he had heard from the higher-ups he had catered to in past winters. Reiner this, Reiner that. Reiner wore a sash so it must be in fashion! Reiner has taken to sword-play, perhaps I should too! Reiner jumped off a cliff, so I should follow suit!

It was as if Reiner could do no wrong and Bertholdt couldn't help but be irritated by it. Most of the time, Bertholdt didn't care what the Prince did with his time, but of course, the blond had not been around for three years, so Bertholdt would almost be interested to see how the Prince had grown. Reiner had left for war the same year Bertholdt had begun to visit the brothels for work – at fifteen. It was a young age but certainly old enough that what they were doing was acceptable. In fact, Bertholdt was a little surprised that Reiner had survived. He vaguely wondered how often it was that Reiner had been let out onto the battlefield. He also wondered if Reiner had even found the time to have a woman over the past three years.

The stage was minimally decorated, with white and gold fabric draping over the side of the stage, no doubt to hide the stilts and woodwork beneath. There was no tent. It was not raining that day, so there was little need for one, which was a blessing and a half. Bertholdt's clothes were still a little damp from the river water, but at least he wasn't bleeding all over his clothes any more. Connie had helped the bleeding stop, for which he was grateful; although the shorter male did not bring up his proposition again. Connie was not exactly easy to distract, but he knew when to drop certain matters. It was one of the things he liked about Connie. He could always tell when Bertholdt did not want to be bothered, or if he was upset, but knew when to push Bertholdt for answers. 

The thing about Connie was that he was curious. He was also competitive, but usually only when it came to Sasha. They made a game of their lives most of the time. It made living from day to day easier on their parts – took the stress out of it. Bertholdt didn't mind, but he hadn't been one for games for a great many years. He could take Connie and Sasha in small doses, despite the fact that they could occasionally make him laugh. Sasha often accused Bertholdt of being too serious and perhaps she was right, but Bertholdt never lingered on the accusation. Of course, that is usually when Connie's curiosity came out to play. He would ask Bertholdt probing questions; where did he come from? How did he get here? Connie had always noticed that Bertholdt never talked about himself, and prodded at him for answers when he had the opportunity. The only thing Connie really knew about him was where he went for food and water, where he slept and where he went during the winter. He was still a little perturbed about what Connie had done earlier that day. 

Connie's touch wasn't unpleasant. It didn't make his skin crawl. It was simply that someone he considered a friend in his tough little world would ask such a thing of him. It could change their relationship and that was not something Bertholdt was prepared to sacrifice. Who knows how their dynamic would change – would Connie ask for further favours of that nature in the future in exchange for food? What about Money? Bertholdt preferred the back-scratching method of their partnership and he would rather it did not turn into one of service. Bertholdt wasn't repulsed by Connie, and perhaps in different circumstances might have been flattered, but Bertholdt simply couldn't fathom performing such intimate acts with anyone he was even remotely familiar with.

Another thing he realised about Connie was his absolute doggedness. He wanted Bertholdt at the town square, so he would have Bertholdt at the town square. The end. Despite his interest in the stage and his attempts to find a good view of the elevated platform that Reiner would occupy whenever he felt ready, and keep it, Connie kept a good eye on Bertholdt. He seemed to know that Bertholdt would leave the first chance he got. Of course, he would hope that Connie would understand, at least on the surface – it was the perfect opportunity to do a little shopping – Bertholdt needed a shirt, after all.

With everyone in the square, it would be easy for Bertholdt to find what he needed. Perhaps he might even be able to find an open window and pinch some thread. That would be a stretch of course. Hardly anyone was stupid enough to leave their windows open when they were away, unless they were extremely absent-minded.

For the time being however, Bertholdt endured the chatter about him, some of it more shallow and superfluous than he cared for. Most of it was reasonable, and expressed curiosity and spread gossip. People even speculated that Reiner was detained within the walls of the Inn because of a woman...which wouldn't have entirely surprised Bertholdt. Even as a child-

“Connie!” a familiar voice cried, distracting Bertholdt from his musing, and he turned his attention from where he stood, leaning against the wall of a nearby bakery to keep his weight off his ankle. The baker had locked up the shop as he was no doubt deeper within the crowd of people, waiting for the announcement. He saw Sasha struggling through the crowd, donned in her usual dirty grey skirt and brown shirt, complete with an aged leather (stolen, of course) waistcoat. Her shoes had seen better days. Her hair was a mess and it was clear he had been doing quite a bit of running before she arrived at the square, her deep brown locks falling from her pony-tail.

She approached with a grin when the shorter male turned, eyes widening at the sight of what she held in her hands: smoked and dried pork. Jerky. It was foreign, although Bertholdt could not say fro where it had come. It was a rare treat to say the least. “Look what I got~” Sasha teased, waving the jerky beneath Connie nose, and he made a swipe for it, only to have Sasha pull away at the last moment and take it between her teeth and yanking a bite off.

“Hey!” Connie protested, making another grab, and it was then Bertholdt realised; now was the time. So, gulped, Bertholdt turned and slipped hurriedly into the alleyway. He would have liked some of that jerky but if missing a meal was the price he had to pay for leaving the square that he could quite literally live with that. He had eaten the day before, after all.

As Bertholdt slipped deeper into the alley behind the baker's shop, leaving Connie and Sasha's bickering behind, Bertholdt moved throughout the almost completely deserted streets. Most stragglers more than likely could not be bothered about the announcement, and figured they would hear enough about it in the days to come that it didn't matter whether or not they attended. The brunette would have liked to be further from the town centre, given that the security was better in this area of the city, but Bertholdt did not want to strain his ankle further. His limp had eased some, but he still hurt.

Connie would undoubtedly be pissed at him later, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for his own peace of mind. The streets were quiet, which was a blessing, and he didn't need to be quite so surreptitious when it came to his 'hunting'. Something – anything – would be better than what he was wearing now. It didn't matter if it didn't fit perfectly. Frankly, nothing really did for a man of his stature, and his size. He was far too small. In the past he had had to use some of the precious little thread he had to modify his trousers, given that they were constantly slipping down where they sat on his hips. Of course his winter clients never seemed to mind; they just thought he was some little thing that was far too easy to bully...and he was. He couldn't risk upsetting his customers, even if they did do things at times that were not at all pleasant to remember. They often enjoyed his humiliation. Despite his size, they could often tell he was proud and they thought it would be fun to put him in his place. 

For the time being, it was really only his shirt that needed replacing. His trousers were damaged, but it was so little that it hardly mattered. A quick patch up when the time came and they would be fine. The collar of his shirt was irreparably torn and the hem too short. Honestly? Bertholdt felt a little naked. The commotion in the square was nothing but a distant murmur now, so he knew he had not wandered far, shuffling from alley to alley, mindful of his ankle as well as his surroundings. Being closer to the town centre than he ever liked to be, Bertholdt felt this to be an almost unfamiliar place. The buildings were similar, made of the same brick or build from the wood of the same forests, but the paths were new to him, Windows were not always where he expected them to be, and no doors at all were painted red with mark of the sickness that had swept from home to home. He had even heard it said that not even the nobles had escaped that pandemic – nor did they escape death's touch. Bertholdt knew nothing of the details, but knew that when he was but half a year old, his father had been touched by the sickness and had died for it. Bertholdt too had been sickly, but miraculously beat the illness and all that came with it. Few managed to fight the disease once it had come, but those who did were lucky..despite the healing process being a long and painful one.

The queen was not one of those few. 

King Erwin Smith of Sina had been left to care for a babe of his own – Reiner. Growing up, Bertholdt heard whispers of the way it had taken the boys father almost a year before he could even so much as speak of his son, let alone look at him for any length of time. It had been a slow process, getting the king to realise that his wife was not the only thing Erwin would see in his son. It was not as if Erwin had never held his son but the day he did so again, some of the servants couldn't help but cheer...apparently. Erwin was a loving father, although the loss of his wife had made him much more reserved than he ever had been before.

Bertholdt would have been upset for him, knowing that story as he did, but then...at least Reiner still had one of his parents. Bertholdt's own mother had passed away when he had reached his tenth birthday. That aside, Bertholdt had never known Erwin to be cruel to Reiner.

Of course, the cruelty of the king had very little to do with the clothes on Bertholdt's back, so he was quick to push his thoughts away as he moved, peeking through windows as he went, occasionally trying a door or two when he was sure no-one was watching him, hoping one of them might give-way to his touch. That did not happen. There was a sudden uproar in the distance and Bertholdt realised that Reiner must have made his appearance...which didn't give the brunette much more time to dilly-dally.

The pauper continued on his way, his limp becoming steadily more pronounced as he hurried on, glancing from place to place in what he realised was the vain hope of finding a clothes line hanging out with freshly washed garments upon it, drying in the late afternoon sun. Bertholdt knew that what he was doing was virtually pointless, but surely, today of all days, he could suffer a stroke of luck, could he not?

He had escaped Connie with no problems, the town was distracted, but nothing was left for the taking? The world worked in ways that Bertholdt found too inconvenient for words at present, although later, if he ever found himself a better situation, he might thank his experience on the streets and know just what it was he had to do to avoid getting stolen from. Not that that always worked, but the thought was there. Not every house was abandoned, of course. Most people were either too preoccupied to attend or found the time to do so. Very few avoided the town square by choice, and those that did were not exactly law-abiding, much like Bertholdt.

The speech was well under-way by the time Bertholdt made any progress with his mission. He could faintly hear Reiner's booming, yet irritatingly warm voice in the distance, although he could to make out the words. Clearly, Bertholdt realised, he had been wandering back towards the square, almost unconsciously. He made a point to check the doors he had missed previously (having had to avoid a stranger or two as he passed) as he attempted to block out the mere sound of Reiner speaking. 

He couldn't help but falter when a door gave-way beneath his touch and he hesitated – he found one!An open door. Bertholdt glanced around, taking a deep breath as he thought to himself. This was likely the dumbest thing he would ever do. If he weren't so desperate for a new shirt, things would be different. Not even Connie was foolish enough to do what he was about to do. Bertholdt felt sweat slip down his temple, and he forced his nerves to one side. It was only going to be a quick peek...he had never expected any door at all to be open...so many he should do this?

Maybe this was fate?

Before he could change his mind, Bertholdt shifted and pushed the door further open, poking his head through the doorway to get a better look at the room. He frowned. There was nothing that immediately caught his attention, and it appeared the house was empty. So, emboldened by his discovery, Bertholdt slipped inside and made sure to close the door silently behind him. He could to risk any noise now; but if it came to the worst, then Bertholdt could always offer himself up as an apology..or an explanation...or something. Frankly, the brunette did not spare the idea much thought as he crept about the front room of the house. It was a reasonably middle-class home, one of a respectable merchant. The chairs were of a good quality and the fabrics that draped over the many surfaces of the room added dashes of colour. I was clean, newly swept, judging by the broom that was propped up against the wall by the stairs leading no doubt to the bedrooms. 

From what Bertholdt could see, this was was not a family home. There was nothing to indicate young children that he could see or even older ones. In fact, the house was bare of most personal touches that would indicate family of any sort. A lot of the furniture suggested that money was a very important thing within that household. It made Bertholdt think that he wouldn't miss a single shirt, or even a coin or two, but then, people with money always were the most selfish when it came to their possessions, a point, Bertholdt noted, that was emphasised quite suddenly by the feel of a blade pressed to the skin of his neck from behind.

The pauper froze and gulped, feeling a much larger body than his own pressed against his back at the knife pressed closer to him. He could almost feel the bite of the blade against his flesh, but it was the hiss from behind him that commanded his attention before long “Welcome, stranger.” A man hissed in his ear, making his shiver “I wasn't expecting company...”

Stiffly, Bertholdt glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the man over his shoulder. He was shorter than Bertholdt, but stout and strong enough to over-power the trespasser. He was plain with dark hair and his brown eyes set in a furious glare. Bertholdt could see by the light slipping out onto the floor at his feet that the merchant (for that is what he was judging by the quality of his clothes), that the man had come through the front door. He had probably been nearby enough to see Bertholdt enter his home, to know to enter is silently, not that the boy would have escaped in him.

“I-I came for a shirt..” Bertholdt forced out, his voice choked and tight around his panic. This man was a merchant, so perhaps he would believe that Bertholdt had come here to buy from the man.

“To my house?” The merchant asked sceptically.

“W-well...” Bertholdt continued hesitantly, gulping, and knew he had begun to sweat nervously “I don't have any money...” He explained, slowly reaching up shakily, to placing his sun-kissed fingers upon the Merchant's pale wrist.

The merchant let out a short bout of gruff, incredulous laughter “And how were you going to pay?!” He pressed, laughing again and making Bertholdt flinch and the cruelty he heard there. Whatever he had gotten himself into, it was not going to end well, he realised. It was all Bertholdt could do to press his back against the other man's, his backside pressing suggestively against the obviously older man's hips. Bertholdt's cheeks burned in shame when the merchant laughed again, getting the hint. “You little whore...” He laughed out as Bertholdt nodded. He had never used himself this way before, to buy his way out of a tight spot, and it physically hurt him. “A little backwards, isn't it?” The merchant mocked “Actually breaking into someone's home to fuck them.”

“I-I didn't break in,” Bertholdt retorted quietly before he could stop himself “The door was open...”

“A prostitute,” The merchant snapped, and Bertholdt flinched at the word “A trespasser” the man growled “and an impertinent whelp.” The blade pressed to the flesh of his neck and Bertholdt forced himself to withhold the gasp of pain as the knife bit into his skin some, splitting it.

“...I take that as a no, then..” Bertholdt let out after a tense moment.

“Quite the opposite.” The merchant growled, and Bertholdt tensed, his finger's twitching where they rested against the back of the Merchant's hand at his neck, “Someone needs to teach you some manners.” He hissed, and Bertholdt shivered at the feel of the man's breath at the base of his neck, repulsed. He could already feel his fat hand snaking its way around his waist.

Acting quickly, lest Bertholdt find himself in a position where he could not retract his offer, Bertholdt elbowed the man behind him, hissing in pain when he felt the blade cut further into his flesh as the man stumbled away from him. He recovered quickly however, as Bertholdt had not hit him hard enough to cause much discomfort and grabbed the boy's arm, spinning him around on the spot. There was a flash of metal as the other's blade made its way towards Bertholdt's gut which the pauper deftly side-stepped. 

Bertholdt realised quickly that the other man was not going to stop and that he had to be disarmed. Bertholdt made point to avoid altercations like this, and was always quick to give in if he could see now way out. Yes, the situation was not hopeless, something he discovered when he dove for the merchant's wrist biting down upon the other's hand, hard enough to draw blood. Screeching, the Merchant dropped the knife and wheeled back.

The street rat bent to pick up the knife – a blade was something always to be picked up – lest the enemy recover it. Of course, Bertholdt received a kick to the gut for his trouble and he doubled over in pain before being grabbed by the hair and yanked upright, emerald eyes widening when he realised the other man was preparing to swing at him.

Hurriedly, Bertholdt's grip tightened on the knife, and lashed out, failing to block out the cry that left the merchant's mouth as the blade dig into his flesh. He released Bertholdt and reflexively bought his arm to his chest, at which point Bertholdt made a run for it. 

He burst out of the house, knife in hand, adrenaline pumping through his vain, and drowning out the pain in his ankle as he ran. The sounds of a furious pursuit behind him only made him run faster. The merchant was calling for the guardsmen, but so far as he could tell (he had made the mistake of looking back once, and he was not going to do it again) no-one was coming to his aid.

Rounding a corner, Bertholdt stopped dead in his tracks, coming face to face with a fence, built of strong stone, and he gulped. There were plenty of grips, so scaling it would be relatively easy. He sighed, placing the blade between his lips as he ignored the taste of the merchant's blood in his mouth, placing his hands upon the wall, beginning his climb. 

It did not take long for him to hook his hand over the top of the wall – it was not all that high, considering, but rather than slip over the other side, Bertholdt thought it would be much less obvious where he had gone if he moved to the roof instead. So, perched on top of the wall, Bertholdt slowly got to his feet, balancing with one foot behind the other as he reached for the thatched roof in front of him. Travelling by roof was not something Berholdt did, but it was not unheard of. It was a popular escape route for a number of thieves. Bertholdt refused this method of escape, given that he had never trusted the roofs of any house, let alone thatched ones, given that they were prone to rot, on the outside, exposed to the weather as they were. He would risk it this time, however, because the straw looked somewhat fresh.

The straw provided an easy grip, for which Bertholdt was grateful, and he was soon out of sight of the Merchant. He could hear the man below him, cursing and muttering to himself about little whores and the authorities, but...Bertholdt could also hear...Reiner?

“The Kingdoms are at peace,” Reiner was saying, and Bertholdt wished he did not have to listen to that voice. Dread filled him and he decided then to scale the roof further and peek over the other side of the roof, his eyes widening at the sight beneath him. The town square, with crowds of people and Reiner upon the stage that had been built earlier that day, arms out-stretched as he emphasised his speech “Maria's gentle Prince Armin has come to us as our ward and Princess Historia of Rose has done the same!” Betholdt could just hear the smirk on Reiner's face. The crowd before him booed at the news and Reiner laughed softly, waving for silence, which he received soon enough.

Bertholdt shifted unconsciously, removing the blade from his lips and slipped down the roof, closer to the display, his gaze fixed upon the square. Reiner was not alone. A man stood beside him on his right – short, with black hair and the Wings of Freedom proudly displayed upon the green cloak he donned. To his left was a woman, taller than the dark-haired man, with pale red hair, orange in hue, the Garrison Roses upon her own brown cloak. He could make out nothing more of the pair. Sina's own guards were stationed all around the square, so no-one seemed to worry that Reiner was sandwiched between two people from enemy kingdoms...or rather...recently occupied Kingdoms. “Now, now...” Reiner soothed with what Bertholdt could only imagine was a grin “I must ask you to treat them kindly!”

Slowly, Bertholdt stood – or tried to – his ankle giving out beneath him, and he let out a short cry as he tumbled down the roof, unable to stop himself, hardly registering Reiner's words “They are our fami-” There were outcries and Reiner stopped short. Bertholdt felt the roof disappear and Bertholdt's stomach dropped as he felt himself falling. 

Reiner turned in the direction someone pointed, shouting “Look out!”, and glanced up, unable to act fast enough to move aside – quickly becoming the cushion that broke Bertholdt's fall. The pair crashed to the floor of the stage. The knife in Bertholdt's hand wedged itself in the wood beside the Prince's blond head and Bertholdt failed register the horror and protests of the crowd around him. 

Prince was too winded and dazed to do more than push at the Bertholdt's shoulder, honey brown eyes opening slowly as he grimaced opening at the pain in the back of his head. Bertholdt tried to oblige, bracing his hands on the floor either side of them and attempting to get to his feet.

Their eyes met, and both men stilled. 

“You.” Reiner breathed out after a short moment, tone venomous when recognition hit him.

Before Bertholdt could so much as take a breath, he felt hands at his back and he was yanked to his knees. There were hands in his hair and a sword at his throat, and Bertholdt realised he was being restrained by the ginger-haired woman and the black-haird man. He shuddered. Both looked furious...well. The woman did, but the man looked coldly upon him, his expression unreadable and his dark grey orbs fixed upon him with something close to disdain.

The woman's honey brown gaze was narrowed dangerously as he jaw was set, her sword barely an inch from his throat. The hand in his hair belonged to the man, then, Bertholdt concluded, acutely aware of Reiner making his way to his feet, stumbling slightly, and hand moving to the back of his head, hoping to soothe it. Bertholdt could help but wince when he felt a hand seize both of his wrists, hating the way they strained his muscles, rendering him immobile.

“You...” Reiner said again, voice raspy, hatred clear in his tone. His gaze was fixed upon the blade buried in the wood of the stage. Bertholdt made a point to fix his attention on the prince only when he redirected his gaze towards the pauper. “I didn't think you could sink any lower...”

“Do you know this filth, your Highness?” The dark-haired man asked, monotonously. 

“Bertholdt Hoover.” Reiner responded by way on an answer “A murderer.”

The woman nodded simply “Bertholdt Hoover,” She started, her tone stern “I hereby arrest you on behalf of his Royal Highness, Prince Reiner, on the charges of murder, attempted murder of his Highness and treason.”

That was the last thing Bertholdt heard before that hand disappeared from his hair and his world went black as pain erupted from the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think. Your comments are my fuel and I appreciate them beyond measure!
> 
> And so, Reiner is finally properly introduced into the story...at last. He doesn't seem like a happy bunny, does he?


	5. Home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which denial is the name of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM TAKING AN AWFUL LOT OF CREATIVE LICENSE WITH THIS AU, OKAY? 
> 
> ...Don't judge me!

Finding consciousness was not an easy thing to do amid dreams of youthful laughter and wider more confident grins than had ever been seen before. It was difficult for Bertholdt to pull himself away from the feeling of a soft, tiny pale hand holding his own. It was a firm, sure grasp that Bertholdt would never admit to missing, but even as he dreamed felt bereft of the security of that hold when his dreaming shifted to blond hair and blue eyes, and the smiles of a little girl who was not accustomed to smiling often. He saw dark hair, like his own and bright smiling eyes. Then, there were horses. Smiles turned to frowns and the pain of a whip upon his back

It was, in the end, the force of the whip upon young, sensitive flesh that forced Bertholdt to open his eyes, the hurt shifting then to his head, past injuries forgotten. Bertholdt was panting, his short breaths coming out in hurried pants. As he broke away from his nightmare, Bertholdt felt the light pressure of something wrapped around his head. He reached up languidly, the tips of his fine fingers brushing against the fabric secured there – bandages. He groaned again and let his arm fall to the side, hardly reacting when it fell over the side of his resting place. He did not know where he was, but it was dark and it was cold, the only light provided came from some candle beyond his line of sight.

Bleary-eyed and in pain, Bertholdt was only just conscious of the sounds of shuffling that came from his left. The pauper closed his eyes again slowly and was shortly aware of the shadow that fell over him, and the feel of a damp cloth being pressed gently to his forehead. “Oh, Bertholdt...” He heard – a gentle feminine voice – and forced himself to open his eyes, blinking to find some sort of focus in his gaze.

The façade that met him then was a vaguely familiar one. A young woman about his age if not a year or two older Even in the low light Bertholdt could see that her hair was as dark as night, shoulder length and set into two pony-tails over her shoulders; her eyes too were a deep grey. She had pale skin and her pink lips were set in a small frown. It was only really then that Bertholdt thought to look deeper, seeing her eyebrows knitted together and her gaze full of concern, and even perhaps, hurt. The look on her face was wrong, and it only took him a moment to realise why. “..Mina?” He questioned softly, his voice echoing even then throughout the room. She usually looked so happy.

“Hello, Bertholdt.” She whispered back, still dabbing at his face with the cloth “You still sweat like no tomorrow...”

Bertholdt could think of nothing to say to that. “Where am I..?” He asked instead, finally taking notice of the deep grey, rough stone that made up the walls on the room he occupied. 

“The palace dungeon.” Mina replied, his frown deepening slightly as she spoke. She had never been one for blunt speech as far as Bertholdt could remember, but there was very little Mina could do to mince words in his present situation. 

“Oh.” He said, turning his head to one side, only to wince and turn back. The wound on the back of his head from where he had been struck (by the hilt of a sword more likely than not) still raw. “How long...?”

“You've been out for three hours...I don't know whether or not to be surprised they hit you so hard.” Mina replied, and Bertholdt's ever-present forlorn expression did not alter. They did not speak for a time, Bertholdt letting Mina dab at his sweat-soaked skin while he lay there and gathered his thoughts and improved upon his current level of coherency. 

The pauper soon realised that his head was not the only thing about him that had been treated. His neck was wrapped I gauze, covering the small cut that had been made there by the merchant not hours before. There was a bandage around his thigh and his boots were set to the far side of the room, allowing his ankle to breath. He ached all over, and he was tired again.

Mina had her back to him, kneeling on the floor over a small bowl of water, which had been stained a soft pink by what Bertholdt was quick to realise was his own blood. Bandages lay upon the ground beside the bowl, Emerald eyes could not help but alight with curiosity. “Why do you treat me?” Bertholdt asked, unable to keep from voicing his thoughts. “I'm supposed to be a traitor, after all..” He continued, perhaps a little bitterly.

“Because I was told to.” Mina replied, turning to look over her shoulder before sighing at the taller boy “You're to be taken before His Majesty in an hour or two.” She elaborated when she noticed Bertholdt's confusion.

“The King..” Bertholdt whispered and Mina merely nodded.

Leaving the rag she had been wringing out over the bowl upon the floor before she moved over to Bertholdt's side and crouched beside his crude cot (It being merely a plank of wood bolted to the wall with chains above it and attached to the far side to keep it level), frowning gently. “You know...” She continued a little hesitantly, after another moment of silence, her usually bright eyes sad. “Everyone is in an uproar now you've shown up again.” When Bertholdt did not make to reply, she continued, a little falteringly “T-the guard's especially.” She continued. “None of us like the fact that you're here...but we're glad you're home..”

Again, Bertholdt said nothing, and Mina began to look uncomfortable. Bertholdt watched her, although he did not see her, his gaze almost distant, but by the way he pursed his lips ever so slightly, she could tell he was at least listening to her. Mina couldn't help but think Bertholdt wasn't particularly happy about returning to the castle after so long away, but given the circumstances, she didn't blame him. “Berrik's father-”

“Mina...” Berholdt said finally, his voice strained with hurt and exasperation. “I didn't do it...”

The young woman paused and watched Bertholdt's face for a moment. “I know...” She whispered “I know.”

Bertholdt wasn't sure he believed her, but said nothing by way of contestation. Bertholdt had known that his reunion with Reiner would never be a happy one, although this defied any of his expectations. He did not bother to laugh or cry at his situation and felt little need to do either, although most would have thought the young man would have been weeping at the very least, screaming denials and cursing at most. Yet, the traitor remained silent and his expression could only have been described as one of resignation. The street rat had never once fooled himself into believing he would live a long and full life...he had been expecting this. Nothing to be upset about, right?

“I didn't do it...” Bertholdt protested faintly again and Mina only frowned.

“I'm so sorry..” Mina whispered in return when she caught the sound of leather-lad feet scuffling against the stone floor of the dungeon, very slowly making their way towards them. Mina left Bertholdt to his silence then and turned, gathering her supplies up in her arms and stood up straight then the guards finally came into view, quick to press herself against the cell wall, careful not to kick over the bucket that was Bertholdt's chamber pot.

The pair looked stern, although their gaze was knowing, and one was having a difficult time refraining from smirking. Bertholdt couldn't blame him – He'd met the man before, he realised. The man was plain, with dark hair and eyes and no distinguishing traits save a terrible attitude and a penchant for domination. The other had dull brown hair, and strong nose and somewhat striking turquoise eyes. Bertholdt had not had the pleasure of meeting the second guard before, and he wasn't particularly sure he wanted to given his purpose in Bertholdt's life.

Rather than struggle, Bertholdt forced himself to sit up, resolutely ignoring the pain in his head and the protesting ache of his ankle when he put some weight on it. As the blond soldier unlocked the door, lock clanking loudly in the metal of the door as it unlocked, falling open with a simple push, Bertholdt winced a little at the sound, and for once wished that he could stay within his cell. In an instant, the guards were on him, taking him by the arms and yanking him to his feet. Bertholdt still felt weak, but his ankle was still aggravated (honestly, Bertholdt was more than beginning to wish he had just crawled home like some pathetic worm, and got into his filthy bed and stayed there for the foreseeable future). He limped alongside the guard's as best as he could as they roughly led him up the stairs leading from the dungeons to the main floor to the castle. Their grip on his arms was bruising, but Bertholdt couldn't quite bring himself to care. What was a few more bruises? The week had hardly begun anew and he could quite safely say this was going to be the worst week of his life.

He left Mina behind in the cell, bare feet half-dragging themselves across the stony, uneven floor beneath his feet (tripping more than he would have liked), as he was hurried along by his gaolers. The floor was cold beneath his feet and Bertholdt grit his teeth tightly together when the three men reached a set of narrow stairs that twisted slowly, ever upwards onto the upper levels of the castle. Every step was torture. With nothing else to do but count, with every burst of pain that shot through his ankle and up his leg, Bertholdt gathered a count of fifty-seven steps in total. Fifty-seven very painful steps. He vaguely wondered if it might be more merciful to simply fling him down the stairs when he is once again inevitably thrown back into his cell, rather than make him descend them one-by-one.

By the time they got to the top of the staircase, Bertholdt could hardly say he had been walking at all (honestly, could he be left alone for more than five minutes so that his ankle might heal?), what with the guards practically having to carry him down the dull grey marble floor that made up he length of the corridor the soldier's were marching him down. This corridor, from what Bertholdt could see, was dull, meant not for the noble eye. He recognised this - his mother had told him as a child never to go near the dungeons. Not even the corridor that led down into the depths of the castle. She had never wanted him to cause trouble..of course, he had disobeyed once, on account of Reiner wanting to satiate his own curiosity. Reiner, Bertholdt and...well. They were caught, and Reiner was punished appropriately. One could not have the Royal Heir loping around the dungeons with criminals (few as there might have been in the Palace dungeons at any one time), where harm might have come to the Prince. Bertholdt seemed to have been held most accountable, and took the brunt of the punishment, as was his duty.

Reiner never got him into that much trouble again, but sometimes, trouble came whether either boy willed it or not.

The thoughts of times gone by made Bertholdt's chest tighten, and he somewhat numbly went along with the soldiers. There were a few windows, but very small ones (it would not do for someone to escape the dungeon via a window after all), and from what Bertholdt could see, night had fallen. Reiner had probably eaten. The sconces lining the walls were lit, casting dark, foreboding shadows over his captor's faces, which only made Bertholdt lower his head again. 

Soon enough the faint echo of leather-clad feet upon the marble floor came to a stop as the three halted before a door. For one brief moment, the smirking soldier released Bertholdt and he was quick then to balance himself on one leg, to keep the weight off his foot. The door before them was unlocked, and Bertholdt roughly led through it by the sandy-haired soldier. The door was locked and Bertholdt was once again flanked by both men, who still held him tightly and with unyielding cruelty. 

The grey marble turned to white and the walls finer, large windows draped with fine red fabrics and portraits of former family members and royalty and other such people. Bertholdt was sad to realise that he could name less than half of them after so long away. Long carpets went from one end of the corridor to another, also a rich regal red. There were four diverting paths leading away from the castle's main entrance and foyer, and adjacent to the entrance was indeed a grand staircase, leading to the less public areas of the palace. The floor was spotless, the marble and stone banisters on the stairs as well as the balcony were polished to oblivion and everything was just as Bertholdt remembered it. 

Bertholdt felt nauseous.

There were no new buttresses, ornaments, vases or even a new chandelier. That, hanging over their heads, was as large and as beautiful and spotless as ever he remembered it. Again, sconces lined the walls, and there were several ceiling candelabras. There were a few delicately carved sofas and small tables for guests lining the walls.

There was one door however (just down the first corridor on the far side of the room), that Bertholdt dreaded. The entrance to the throne room lay at the end of the corridor, large and imposing and regal and the closer Bertholdt got, the more he realised he did not want to be there. It was a dark oaken door with great iron hinges and elegant carving made into the door. Meticulously done. Bertholdt had never been fond of that door, it frightened him; it frightened him now. The door loomed ever closer and as it did Bertholdt pushed his feet with all his might into the floor in the hopes of halting his progress, struggling against the guard's hold upon him. He gasped and whimpered as the guards cursed, yanked and pulled him back into submission with a swift knee to the gut and a firm slap across the cheek. “Shut up,” The smirking one (whom at this point was not so much as smirking but growling) snapped, taking Bertholdt briefly by the hair when the brunette tried to take a bite out of his palm when it had ventured to close “Traitorous harlot!”

“Hush!” The turquoise-eyed soldier said hastily, grabbing Bertholdt again, only to have to struggle for his hold again when Bertholdt bulked and attempted to shove the man off him “Don't let the King hear language like that..!” Bertholdt wanted to scoff. This man seemed a little whiny...or perhaps he was simply trying to get a promotion by remaining as respectful as possible in the eyes of everyone that mattered. He was young, after all, and apparently ambitious.

The smirking soldier scoffed “Never you mind about that.” He snapped, grip tightening on Bertholdt again, making the boy wince. He was taller than both these men, but he was much weaker, and they knew it. “Just let me do the talkin-”

“No.” Bertholdt protested softly when they began to advance, the soldiers hand hovering over the door handle.

“What?” The (formerly) smirking soldier asked, as if startled into monotonous incredulity.

“No.” Bertholdt said again.

A moment of silence followed as the army men exchanged glances, and the smirking soldier scoffed, reached forwards and yanked the door open, and Bertholdt gave a wordless cry, his panic getting the better of him as his struggling began anew. The two soldier's were practically forced to haul Bertholdt into the room, virtually throwing him down upon the throne room floor in a graceless heap upon a carpet that was anything but. A red carpet with golden lining that lead from the door to the steps leading to the Royal throne. It was soft and beautiful and for all the pain he was in Bertholdt, for a single, insane moment, only wished he could have washed before entering the room. Bertholdt felt dirtier than usual in he face of such grandeur. 

The prisoner hardly had time to react before his arms were seized and he was dragged along the floor until he was a respectful distance from the greatness that had deigned to see him. Bertholdt was forced to his knees, his arms restrained tightly behind him as he was made to bow his head, having it pushed down by the previously smirking soldier as he announced “Bertholdt Hoover, your Majesty, Your Highness.”

Bertholdt tensed. He had expected the King, but he had been hoping against hope that Reiner would not be present when he saw the elder man. He had been hoping that the Prince would not want to see him. The King made a silent gesture and Bertholdt's head was released and he was able to look up, although he dared not raise his gaze above the Royal's feet.

Erwin sat upon a dais, his throne was made from the same strong oak as the door, although the carving was different, almost floral in its lines, and it was upholstered with red velvet. The throne to his right was identical but vacant, and to his left sat Reiner, his seat only slightly smaller in size, but that was the only difference. Bertholdt could feel Erwin's gaze upon him – he had never been able to meet the man's intense stare – and it made him feel like a child again. The man was a blond-haired blue-eyed Adonis in the eyes of many, and Bertholdt would be lying if he said he couldn't appreciate the view, but the man terrified the boy. There had always been something about Erwin that Bertholdt both admired and feared, and he could never quite name what it was. The man wore black waistcoat over a silken shirt with a high collar, tied together neatly with no doubt very fine string. and at the base of his throat sat a small, simply blue broach that set off his eyes. He wore simple black trousers (tailored to perfection) and polished black boots, that reached just below the knee. Bertholdt didn't need to look at his face to know he would not be able to read the stony look that undoubtedly sat there.

Reiner himself was out of the finery he had donned that afternoon and was instead draped over his seat in an outfit that almost mirrored his fathers in simplicity. His shirt was an open-collar was that was loosely tired, his shirt and trousers white, and his boots a pale brown. He wore no waistcoat. Bertholdt thought the Prince looked like a tiger, waiting to pounce upon his prey, given the tension in his falsely relaxed posture. His golden-brown eyes were narrowed upon Bertoldt, and his jaw was set, but otherwise, he made no immediate move to say or do anything. Perhaps, Bertholdt reasoned as he lowered his head again, Reiner was waiting on his father's word. Of course, Reiner could be kind, but Bertholdt could never quite accuse Reiner of having gentle features.

“Bertholdt Hoover...” Erwin spoke after was seemed like a minute of silence. Bertholdt looked up then, emerald eyes moving to meet the King's haltingly, when the boy was suddenly distracted by the sight before him. At the bottom of the steps either side of the Dais stood the two soldiers whom had been responsible for his arrest – the ginger-haired woman and the ebony-haired man – he was excessively short for a soldier and wore not the mark of the Garrison or the Military Police but the mark of the Wings of Freedom. Bertholdt could not read his face, but the coldness in his narrow gaze made Bertholdt turn from him abruptly, toward the woman. Her amber eyes were narrowed upon him, but they were not as unforgiving. They were however, as stern as he remembered. Neither soldier said anything, but evidently, his interest in the pair has caught the King's attention. “This is Lance Corporal Levi,” Erwin said, lifting a hand and gesturing to the shorter male. The man said nothing, but pursed his lips slightly. No doubt wondering why it was His Majesty was even trying to converse with a traitor. “And this is officer Petra Ral” He offered, with another gesture. Bertholdt said nothing.

The lack of a response did not seem to perturb the King, who instead offered an almost sardonic smile, before he continued “You stand accused of treason-”

“No-” Bertholdt's protest was interrupted when he arm was yanked very pointedly upwards as he was forced to bow further forward to escape the strain that the soldier to his left had put upon his arm. Soon however, the pressure was gone, and Bertholdt figured it was because Erwin had made a gesture for the torture to stop.

“No?” Reiner barked, sitting up at last, making Bertholdt flinch and protest again.

“No..!” He reiterated, more firmly this time, but to what end he could not fathom. He could not form an argument for his case. “No..”

“No.” Reiner parroted, impatiently, leaning forward in his chair, elbow resting upon a knee, apparently finding it difficult to resist the urge to curl his hand into a fist.

Bertholdt shook his head, his voice nothing but a whimper “N-no..”

Reiner snarled “If all he is going to say is 'no', then I think we're done.” The Prince was not in the best of tempers that day, for obvious reasons, “I think a hang-”

“I didn't do it!” Bertholdt interrupted, his voice quaking.

A moment of tense silence followed, as Bertholdt forced himself to lift his gaze to meet Reiner's own. His golden-brown orbs were full of fury, and not-quite-unfamiliar hatred. Bertholdt's eyes were rimmed with tears, although they did not fall and were formed more out of stress than remorse. “I didn't kill Berrik...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also. I really don't know: Hoover or Fuber?


	6. Sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long, but I hope you guys will enjoy it all the same!

Bertholdt realised a second too late that mentioning that name something akin to stepping on the tail of a sleeping tiger. That second was instead filled with the sound of an unintelligible cry – more a roar, to Bertholdt's ears, filled with rage and hurt and soon enough the gangly lad felt two strong hands wrap around his neck as he braced himself, clamping his emerald eyes shut, and in another second they were gone.

The Brunette's shot open, and widened at the sight before him – Reiner was on his knees, straining against his father's hold. Erwin too was upon his knees, his hands were like shackles upon Reiner's wrists, albeit shackles that were being tested for all their worth. Erwin appeared to be struggling. Reiner was a strong young man, and was likely physically stronger, although Erwin was renowned for his unbending determination. If he wanted something to happen, he would make it so. If he wanted to restrain Reiner, then that is what would pass. 

The prisoner was inexplicably relieved, and frightened at the sight. He watched as Erwin fought to control his son, managing slowly to pull the Prince's arms back and hold them against his heaving chest when Reiner seemed to lose his fighting spirit. Those hands came to rest, although Erwin's grip remained steadfast as he pulled his son against his chest, before leaning forward a little over his shoulder and whispering into his hear. It was so quiet that not even Bertholdt could hear. He was hardly a foot away from the Prince now, level with both him and the King. A moment ago Bertholdt had thought that kneeling before royalty as they sat upon their seats of power had been closer than he would have liked, but he had been wrong. Bertholdt could feel Reiner's heaving pants against the skin of his face, and he winced, sweating beginning anew, although he couldn't say when h had begun in the first place.

There was more than a minute of silence before anyone spoke, and when someone did, it was not who Bertholdt had expected. There was a flash, and in a moment, Bertholdt realised there was a sword at his throat, slightly to the left, at Erwin's side. “What exactly is your relationship to Prince Reiner?” It was the short man – Levi, Bertholdt recalled. His tone was bored, yet somehow sultry, like he was present out of obligation rather than his own will. He might have been impatient, but the impassive look on his finely-featured face made it difficult for Bertholdt to read. 

“Levi,” Erwin spoke up at last, his sky-blue orbs directed upwards, towards the shorter man. He could see the smaller male's grip tighten around his sword for a moment, as if to redirect his irritation to the hilt of his sword. Bertholdt realised then that Corporal Levi must have thought Erwin was being too informal. Bertholdt knew the feeling. “Put the sword away,” Erwin continued, although the pauper could not tell whether or not the ruling monarch had been oblivious to the gesture. “He is restrained.”

There was a moment's pause before Levi scoffed and sheathed his sword, but he did not move away from the group. Bertholdt's arms were still straining against the hold the guard's hand on him, made worse by the fact that the pair had jumped at Reiner's near-assault. Bertholdt's eyes had left the commotion around him, and focused on the Prince, however much he wished he could look away, he could not, knowing that the Prince was just as focused on him. He swallowed “Reiner, I didn't kill B-”

“You don't get to say his name!” Reiner snapped, lurched forwards. Bertholdt was luck Erwin was the type never to let his guard down, and was able to keep the Prince restrained. 

“Sorry,” Bertholdt breathed before he could help himself, his voice nothing but a broken whisper “I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry..” Bertholdt was all too aware of how pathetic he sounded, and ashamed because the room had fallen silent to hear him. “I won't say it, I'm so sorry..” He whimpered, quick to reassure the Prince. Even now, Bertholdt realised, he never wanted Reiner to be unhappy. Bertholdt had always wished he could smile like Reiner used to.

Reiner seemed to visibly relax at Bertholdt's words, although the hostile air about him never left. “Don't ever say it,” Reiner stated firmly, scowling “You're just a whipping boy,” Reiner continued, watching s Bertholdt's eyes fell to the ground as he ducked his head “and you are unworthy of speaking the name of that nobleman.”

There was a gasp, and the hush in the room that fell over the room was tense. Bertholdt instinctively turned to the source of the noise, to see the woman – Petra – with her hand raised, as if she had forced herself to keep from pressing it to her lips, and rested awkwardly against her breast. He gentle, pink lips were slightly agape, and she looked torn, she bright amber eyes conflicted with shock, indignation and confusion. Bertholdt could understand the look. This was not generally the position most whipping boys found themselves in at his age. Had things gone as they should have, he and Reiner would still be friends, he would have retired, and Reiner might even have given him some property of his own, perhaps even an allowance to spend as he wished. 'Just a whipping boy' seemed like an insult, even now. After all, every Prince had a whipping boy...Erwin had once had a whipping boy.

The prisoner forced his gaze away from the woman, and instead moved again to find Reiner, quickly, but instead, he caught the King's gaze. Those sky blue eyes were as steely as ever, and Bertholdt was immediately consumed with nerves, and felt his mouth go dry. That said, even though Erwin made Bertholdt uncomfortable, there was something strangely fortifying about his presence, despite the circumstances. Erwin should have made him want to beg for mercy or cry or scream, but instead, he stilled Bertholdt, and halted his attempts to turn back to Reiner and apologise. His reaction to Reiner's upset had been instantaneous, and he had hardly registered the churning in his stomach when he thought about how pathetic he must have looked in that moment. Reiner had hurt him just as much as he had hurt Reiner...so why was he the only one apologising? 

Suddenly, there was a hoot of laughter at the back of the room, making Bertholdt visibly jump, wincing when the Soldier's did not shift to accommodate his shock and ease his pain. Bertholdt shifted and tried to turn his head around to look in the direction of the noise when the slow amused clapping had begun. In that instant, Reiner tore himself away from his father and turned on his heels returning moodily to his chair. Erwin rose ever, ever graceful, to his feet, and did the same, returning to his throne.

“I always did wonder what your relation to the Prince was!” There was more obnoxious cackling and Bertholdt found himself stiffening at the familiarity of that voice. “I have to say, I wasn't expecting this..” Bertholdt heard movement and shortly, he found himself having to crane his neck to look at at the familiar woman looking down her nose at him.

“Ymir...” He breathed out, incredulously, emerald eyes widening in surprise. She looked the same as ever, in her rough clothes and soft boots, the sleeves of her shirt scuffed and ruined at the elbows. “What are you doing here..?” He couldn't help but ask, hope blooming painfully in his chest. Perhaps she had come to vouch for his innocence!

“Oh...” She started, with a bit of a shrug “I live here.”

“Wha...” Bertholdt huffed unintelligibly, the hope within him deflating on what felt like a physical level. “What...”

There was the slightest clearing of the throat, and Bertholdt's attention was stolen by it immediately, his head whipping around to look at the royal pair, his gaze fixing upon Erwin as the man shifted slightly and began to speak. “When you left us six years ago,” the blond explained “I could not allow you to slip into oblivion-”

“It was _Hell_ trying to find you” Ymir chipped in, unhelpfully.

“My son was distraught,” his gaze flicking to Ymir only briefly when he was interrupted, but other than that, did not seem to mind the minor interruption. “So, I hired young Ymir here to find you.”

Ymir nodded in agreement, his dark hair swaying slightly with the movement, where it sat, framing her elegantly featured face as usual. “It took three years to locate you.” Ymir explained with a frown, and Bertholdt felt his throat constricting. Ymir, he realised, had been in the room the entire time, hiding from him, behind the doors when he entered and remained silently to watch his exchange with the Royal family of Sina. 

“She reported back to me as soon as she did,” Erwin explained “And I told her to keep you here, in Sina.”

It was then that Reiner shifted, sitting up and turning to his father, apparently resisting the urge to scowl “You mean you've known where he was this _whole time_?” He asked, snappily, failing to keep his irritation from his voice. Erwin did not reprimand the boy, knowing that he was being faced with a sensitive issue. Besides, he was quite aware of how cool and collected Reiner usually was...so he did not begrudge anything for his laps in composure. 

Of course, it was then that something clicked in Bertholdt's brain, and he turned to Ymir, faster than he would have thought possible, ignoring the strain on his neck “You _bitch_!” Bertholdt hissed out venomously, and for a moment, even Ymir was surprised. Bertholdt rarely swore, and he never used insults like that. _“That's_ why you stole from me?!” He had been trapped within Sina all this time, because Ymir had been sabotaging him? He'd thought...well. He hadn't thought, really. “You _bitch_!” He cried again, this time, his voice cracked, betraying his hurt, and very nearly missed Reiner's announcement as he stood.

Bertholdt never even looked away from Ymir as he was yanked to his feet painfully. “Bertholdt Hoover.” Reiner started sternly, his own golden orbs alight with fire “You shall hereby be executed for treason in two days time.”

It was only then that Bertholdt turned back to Reiner, his eyes widening, despite himself. He shouldn't have been surprised. Reiner had made no signs of forgiving him for what he had done. He did not, however, speak or protest as he was pulled away from the Prince as he was yanked out of the room, with uncalled for brutality. Bertholdt had failed to suppress his pained grunts ever now and again. Soon enough the Brunette was gone, and the room was left in an uncomfortable silence.

It was broken, after several long moments of silence, by a scoff, to which everyone turned, to see Levi eyeing the door through which Bertholdt had been dragged. “Shitty brat.” He muttered, his grey, dully interested grace falling upon Erwin's own gaze “He didn't even seem to give a shit about the treason charges.” The look in Erwin's eyes suggested he had not been the only one to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...I know this is shorter than usual, but I hope you were not disappointed.
> 
> Please review! Let me know what you think. Your words...they feed me.


	7. Integrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, to be a child again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I am so sorry. This took a decade. Okay well. It took ages because I haven't had time and any time I did I was too tired to be creative. 
> 
> A nice long one for you this time, though! To make up for the shorter chapter last time, as well as the long wait for this one.

Bertholdt had spent the rest of the day in his cell, laying upon the wooden slab that served as a bed, his ankle hanging over the end to take the pressure off of it. He lay there, his back to the cell bars and the light of the torches that were set further down the hallway, breathing slowly and evenly. The pauper couldn't think. His mind's eye was filled with the image of Reiner's face, contorted in such rage that it hurt to think of it. Under different circumstances, Bertholdt might have thought that he deserved that pain. Reiner was incredibly stubborn, that much had not changed about the blond. Very little could make the Prince change his mind when he got an idea in his head, and the idea that had setted there had been there for six years. 

Bertholdt Hoover was a killer.

That's what Reiner thought of him. That's all that he was to the Prince. Some..poor, insignificant servant boy who had a...a temper, or a grudge or...whatever it was that Reiner thought was wrong with him. It didn't matter. Reiner was a Prince. Reiner's word was damn near Law and the only other person with the authority to really stay Reiner's hand was his father. Erwin was a man of few words and a stern countenance. Bertholdt was as intimidated by him now as he had been when he was a twelve year-old whipping boy. Of course, the man was a little more to him than an authority figure in his life. 

The brunette remembered a least one occasion he had sat upon Erwin's lap when he was a boy. Bertholdt could recall that he must have been no more than about three or four. It was one of his earliest memories...apart from shoving Reiner that one time and making the blond cry. Even now that memory made Bertholdt's heart seize up with guilt. Bertholdt remembered sitting in Erwin's lap because he had squirmed initially, wanting to get away from the big scary man. Bertholdt had tripped and scraped his knee and his mother hadn't been there, more than likely off doing work somewhere else in the castle. He couldn't recall whereabouts he had been in the castle but he had been playing with Reiner, probably a chasing game. 

Bertholdt remembered crying.

Erwin had held him until his tears subsided, all the while bouncing him soothingly on one knee. The brunette vaguely recalls Reiner getting jealous and demanding that he, too, be let up onto his father's lap. Of course, he could have made that last part up. It was difficult to discern memory from fiction after so many years. That was a good memory of Erwin, and one that managed to temper his fear of the man..just a little bit. It was nice to remember that Erwin was as human as the rest of them.

Erwin had protected him from Reiner – a thought that hurt more than it perhaps should at this point – and the hurt he could have caused. Bertholdt was going to die in the morning, all because of a misunderstanding. He should have argued, he knew that, he should have pleaded his case...but seeing Reiner again, seeing him so close and so angry had thrown all rational thought out the window. Bertholdt made a mistake that would cost him his life. He pleaded for forgiveness, not release, not innocence, and most certainly not for the most pressing charge of Treason.

Bertholdt hurt a boy to whom he had once been so close. He wouldn't presume so much as to call him his best friend, but they had been friends, at least. They even slept in the same bed, every night, after a while. At the time, Bertholdt hadn't realised that that would have happened whether he wanted it to or not. Whipping boys were meant to be friends with their..charges? Their Masters? Their superiors? Bertholdt thought the last to be the most accurate. Reiner demanded very little from Bertholdt at the time. The only difference between them had been their social standing, so that made Reiner superior, didn't it. Reiner was encouraged to spend all the free time he had with Bertholdt, and Bertholdt was encouraged to do the time. Bertholdt wanted to do the same. He liked Reiner. He liked the way Reiner never cried, liked the way Reiner worked hard to achieve his goals, like the way he was so devoted to his people. He liked the way he smiled at Bertholdt. 

It made him sick to think that all of that kindness, all of that confidence, all that made Reiner who he was, would never be his again. Reiner would never hold his hand at night when the thunder rumbled through the sky, Reiner would never comfort him, read with him, eat, play or smile at him. It hurt to think that Reiner was capable of hate. The sight of Reiner was enough to turn his stomach, to make his chest ache and make his heart feel like it was caught in his throat. 

Bertholdt the murderer. Bertholdt the pauper. Bertholdt the traitor, prostitute, liar and thief. Bertholdt was everything he shouldn't be, everything he never wanted to be. He hated himself for clinging to the memories that he had wanted to forget more than anything in the world. Bertholdt despised the way he pined for Reiner sometimes. Bertholdt missed him, and would never be able to face him again, even without the charge of treason. The day Reiner returned from the war had been the first time in six years that he had seen the blond. He'd made a point to ignore and pointedly avoid any of the public appearances that the Blond had made in the three years before the war had begun.

In some ways, Bertholdt couldn't believe that they had allowed the prince, fifteen at the time, to go to war. That said, Reiner had always been strong, and he had always been convincing, albeit only when he wanted something. Reiner had never been good at coming up with excuses to avoid something, considering it happened so rarely. Bertholdt had always been in the habit of shrinking into the background and quietly excusing himself if he thought he could get away with it.

That was how Ymir got away with the things she did. Bertholdt was a push-over. He didn't like confrontation. He was never one to jump into action at the first opportunity. Ymir stole from him, and he did nothing. Ymir disappeared and he never asked where she went, because she always came back. It was entirely possible that she had been going to the palace, now that he thought about it. Where else could she have gone? Did she even had to steal the food she would sometimes bring to their glorified shack of a house?

Bertholdt had been made to look like a fool. She had even taken a jab at his connection to the Royal family, and he'd had no idea that she knew anything at all. Bertholdt had been too busy trying to survive day-to-day, keeping up their friendship with Connie and Sasha, who Bertholdt had hardly spared a thought for in all his time in prison. He missed them both. Of course, they brought to mind Eren and Mikasa. 

Did they know about his arrest? Do they know Ymir probably wouldn't be going back to them? Were they still expecting Bertholdt to come home with bread or a bit of meat if he had been lucky that day? Bertholdt tried not to steal more than one thing in a day, so he always tried to go for the more filling stuff, which more often than not, was bread. It was almost among the easier things to nab. Bertholdt knew they were more than capable of looking after themselves, but after spending so long with them in their little four-man pod, it was difficult not to worry for them; and Bertholdt had been reluctant to keep them around in the first place.

Whether or not Bertholdt had wanted it, it was over now and there was nothing he could do to stop it, to make sure they were safe and able-bodied. If one of them ever got hurt, it would leave one or both of them vulnerable. Eren was not as good at defending himself as Mikasa, and Mikasa was never good at thinking straight if she thought Eren was in trouble. Eren could get aggressive and Mikasa could be cold, but in their way, they usually had each other's backs and if one or both were injured, then it might make feeding themselves difficult. They might even start having to spend the money they had collected to travel to Maria. Betholdt understood the need to get away, to move onto something better, perhaps safer. They would be able to get by easier in Maria. Things were generally cheaper there. Bertholdt had wanted so desperately to get as far from Reiner, as far from his 'crimes' as he could. Ymir had put a stop to that.

So there he was, in a cold dank cell, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the shackles around his wrists and his ankles. Bertholdt worried his lower lip with one hand, while the other toyed with the frayed edges of his shirt, pressed between his midsection and his leg, where he had pulled it up to his chest, pressed against the stone wall of his cell, whilst his other was still stretched out, offering relief to his injured ankle as it hung over the edge of the plank that served as his bed. Mina had come to his cell some time ago, with food. He had not responded, and had not so much as acknowledged her presence. 

The food went ignored.

With his back ato the gaol bars, Bertholdt blocked out the rest of the world. He didn't need it, and it didn't need him. As far as he was aware, Mina had not spared him any words. She was clever enough to know that there was no point in talking to a dead man.

When he had been put back into his cell, Bertholdt had done nothing to cushion the fall he'd suffered when the guard's quite literally threw him back behind bars. He had lain there for a time, unblinking. He did not cry, he had yet to cry at all. He was quite aware that he should probably be inconsolable. He simply stared, unblinking. Bertholdt wasn't even entirely sure when exactly it was that he had made it to his bed. 

Bertholdt did not sleep that night, and when morning came, he did not so much as flinch when the guards came to take time away.

_“Come on!” Reiner's voice called impatiently, and Bertholdt frowned, letting out an indistinguishable whine of protest. They had been walking for hours. “Hurry up, Bertl!” Reiner was clad in a blue woollen cloak, the hood thrown back, off of his head accompanied with black boots, baby-blue trousers and a white shirt. It was early spring, and although the winter chill had mostly passed, sometimes a cold breeze called for a little warmer clothing. The Prince was ten years of age, with his golden-brown orbs alight with excitement and restlessness._

_“Reiner~” Bertholdt whined again, appearing at the mouth of the cave where the pair stood, one grinning and the other more than a little sweaty from the trek up the small mountainside that resided to the south of Sina. “we've been walking for_ ages! _Are we there yet?” Bertholdt was tall for his age, and gangly. It never did his confidence any good when he was stood beside Reiner, who looked so comfortable in his own skin. Bertholdt's clothes were a little more modest. An undyed cotton shirt with pale green trousers and brown boots, over which was a deep brown cloak, the hood also thrown back._

_Reiner just laughed, and turned, making his way through the cave, careful as he descended, so as not to slip on the loose stones that littered the cave floor and tumble down the incline. “It's just in here.” He said, his back to Bertholdt “You're going to love it!”_

_Bertholdt took a few hesitant steps towards the cave and frowned, his resolve faltering “A-are we even allowed here?” He swallowed, nervously, half-reaching for Reiner in a pathetic, silent attempt to stop Reiner from venturing deeper into the cave “We're really far away from the pal-”_

_“Of course we're not allowed!” Reiner exclaimed, a little too cheerily, making Bertholdt blanch for a moment in disbelief. “If we were, you would have seen it already and it wouldn't be a surprise!” He never once stopped his movements, and never looked back, the echo in the cave strong enough that his words carried far enough for Bertholdt to hear everything quite clearly._

_At that, Bertholdt glanced around, as if an adult would appear out of no-where and catch them doing something they ought not to be. Seeing none, Bertholdt hesitated for a moment more before he turned to follow Reiner reluctantly into the cave, jogging a little to catch up, slipping once. He was able to catch himself however and was soon once again at Reiner's side, feeling only marginally safer than before. “We'll get in trouble...” he protested again, weakly. There wasn't much point in arguing now, given that they had come all this way and were nearly there to boot._

_It was only then that Reiner stopped, and turned to Bertholdt. “Don't worry.” He said, quite seriously, his mouth set in a firm frown “I won't let them hit you again.” With such conviction in his tone, Bertholdt almost believed that Reiner would be able to stop the adults. By now Reiner knew Bertholdt would get hit if he did anything to misbehave, but sometimes Reiner didn't think of such things until it was much too late. He did try though, and for that Bertholdt was grateful. Reiner almost always said he would stop them, and almost all the time, Bertholdt didn't believe him. It only hurt more when Bertholdt decided to trust Reiner's words when it came to potential punishments, albeit, it was the only time Bertholdt didn't trust Reiner._

_Soon enough, Bertholdt was able to hear the trickle of water coming from further within the cave, and he glanced at Reiner, who only grinned, and hurried onwards when the pair finally reached the bottom of the incline. It was colder, Bertholdt realised, when he was underground, and he needed to cool off, but he wasn't sure if being so cold was a good thing._

_They walked for some time, mostly because Reiner had led them in the wrong direction and had to double back, which only made Bertholdt more nervous. What if they got lost and couldn't find their way out? What if no-one found them? What if they died? Bertholdt didn't want to die, and he was very close to expressing his thoughts to Reiner when the blonde exclaimed “Ah!” He laughed that boisterous laugh that calmed Bertholdt's nerves whenever he heard it “It's just up ahead!”_

_Reiner picked up the pace, breaking out into a run, and Bertholdt was quick to follow suit, with a nervous whimper. He did not want to be left behind._

_Rounding a corner and Bertholdt and Reiner exited into a large dome-like passage, and he gasped I shock. Until now, the cave walls had been closed-in and cramped. Luckily, Bertholdt and Reiner were not yet tall enough to need to crouch, but Bertholdt could tell that the adults would need to do so if they entered the network of underground passageways. This room was so different to the rest. It was wide and spacious and unlike anything Bertholdt had ever seen._

_Water flowed from one end of the cave to the other, where is disappeared through some kind of underwater passage, the arch of which peaked over the water's surface. There was a great pool of water, which gave way to a stream, and Bertholdt had never seen anything so pure in his life._

_The expression of awe was not lost on Reiner, “See.” He he said, and grinned when Bertholdt yanked his eyes from the clear, fresh spring water to the prince beside him, “I told you you'd like it,” And Bertholdt couldn't help but smile._

_“What is this place?” He asked after another minute or so of watching the underground lake, taking a few steps towards it and crouching down beside the water's edge to run his finger's through it slowly._

_“Father said this is where our water comes from.” Reiner explained, moving forward to sit beside Bertholdt, his legs crossed in front of him and he leant back on his palms. “Our wells are built over little lakes like this one.” Reiner explained with a grin, glad to know that he knew something Bertholdt didn't. Bertholdt, though, wasn't surprised._

_“Your father told you?” Bertholdt asked, puzzled. The water felt odd to Bertholdt – not bad – but different. It seemed fresher than anything Bertholdt had come across before. It was different from the well water that Bertholdt had never drank as fresh as this. It was beyond better than the dirty river water that flowed through the city._

_Reiner nodded “He's the one that told me where this place was.” Reiner explained with a shrug “When he told me I asked if I could take you to see it and he said it was okay.”_

_“But you said we weren't allowed!” Bertholdt cried, a little incredulous. He was a little surprised that Reiner would lie to him. Bertholdt must have looked quite offended because Reiner suddenly sat up and held his hands out and shook his head._

_“No, no!” He hurried to explain “When I said that I meant like...people in general.” He chuckled a little, looking sheepish “I had to ask anyway because I didn't know where this place was, and Father kind of caught me out when I asked where it was. He said if I was going to go that I ought to tell someone...which sort of ended up being him anyway...”_

_“He let us come on our own...?”_

_Again Reiner nodded “The mountains are pretty safe most of the time.” Bertholdt didn't want to know what the mountains were like the rest of the time._

_“Reiner...” Bertholdt began uncertainly._

_“Yes?” Reiner asked, shifting and resting his arms on his knees as he regarded Bertholdt seriously. He didn't like the tone the other was using, not because it annoyed him, but because he didn't like it when his friend was upset._

_“What if we get lost?”_

_“Don't worry,” Reiner laughed quietly, grinning as he patted Bertholdt on the head, making the taller boy smile awkwardly. It was a familiar gesture, and one that had become instrumental when it came to calming Bertholdt down when he became too anxious. The familiarity helped. “Father said that if we weren't home by evening, he would send someone out to come and find us.”_

_Oh god_ , Bertholdt thought to himself. _I want Reiner..._

When the guard's arrived, they had yanked him to his feet and immediately tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded him. Bertholdt as only glad he'd had presence of mind enough to slip his boots on earlier that night...although he wasn't quite sure when. He just knew that he would rather hang fully-dressed. 

He could hear the crowd now, boisterous shouts of 'traitor' and more than a few insults filling the air, along with the low curious whispers. At one point, he was almost certain he had heard his name, but it was difficult to tell. 

The pauper stumbled up the stairs of the gallows, which Bertholdt had heard the stage that Reiner had made his speech upon had been converted into. It seemed appropriate really, that Bertholdt should die in the very place he had attempted to murder the prince...well. According to the crowd, anyway. He could feel only one guard on his right side, yanking him across the platform to position him very deliberately in one spot. Blindfolded and restrained, Bertholdt saw no point in fighting, or trying to escape, for he knew he would get nowhere at all. 

He could feel himself shaking, and he wondered if anyone could see it. He couldn't breath and knew that soon he wouldn't have to. He was going to die. He could feel the sweat on his brow and he was going to die. He could feel the hatred in waves and oh god he was going to die. He felt the buzz of excitement in the air because who doesn't love a good hanging and oh god he was going to die. 

_God, no._

By now, he could hear someone beside him, reading out the charges set against him, feeling the noose being fitted around his neck and tightened roughly. 

He had disappointed Reiner, hurt Reiner, and he was going to pay for it.

Reiner would make sure of it. 

_Reiner_.

The speech done, Bertholdt felt himself grow numb, and he knew. He had but a second or two-

 

 

 

“ _Stop_!”

Bertholdt's heart lurched in his chest.

_Connie!_

He heard the beginnings of a scuffle and a cry, before another voice spoke up “You can't do this!” _Sasha!_ Fear and anticipation swelled within Bertholdt's chest, and all of a sudden, he could feel himself shaking again. The lever hadn't been pulled, and he was still alive. Still breathing but-

“Stand down,” He heard that voice, that low voice that was fearsome and so emotionless it sent chills down Bertholdt's spine “Or I will arrest you both for the obstruction of Justice.” There was yet another brief struggle and Bertholdt wanted more than anything for the pair to be safe. They were right beside him, he could tell, judging by the distance their voices were. Perhaps, they were even on top of the platform with him. 

“Hey, let go of me!” He heard Sasha protest, and suddenly, there was the scrape of a boot on wood and sound of flesh on flesh. 

“You little shit!” Someone growled, Bertholdt couldn't tell who, but he knew it wasn't anyone Bertholdt was friends with. He is still surprised that he had yet to hang...so it was possible that Connie and Sasha were trying to keep people away from the level that would decide his fate. 

“You stay the fuck away from him!” _Eren!_

That voice again “That man has been accused of High Treason, you are at risk of being accused of Treason.” Levi's voice was stern, and unmoved. He clearly did not think much of the display before him. “Step away from the prisoner before I make you regret it.”

“I'll kill you before I let you hurt Eren.” _Mikasa!_ She had approached so quietly that Bertholdt had not even heard her. The crowd had gone quiet, perhaps just as shocked as Bertholdt was. Bertholdt could not find his voice, otherwise he might have warned his friends to back off...to leave him. They would only wind up where he is now, otherwise. 

There was a heavy sigh and the scuff of soft leather upon wood. _Was that..._ “You're so over-dramatic, Mikasa.” _Ymir...?_ “But they're right.” Ymir agreed haughtily “We just can't let you kill Bertholdt.” Bertholdt frowned, more than a little puzzled. Why was she doing this, when she had clearly been keeping track of him for the Royal family...? “He's too pathetic to commit treason.”

“Yeah!” Connie agreed. He couldn't tell where their attention was directed, but they were shouting now “I mean no, I mean-” He paused, his next works coming in a whisper “Ymir that was mean...”

Bertholdt figured Ymir must have replied non-verbally, because she said nothing in return.

The brunette couldn't help but gasp sharply when he felt the back of his neck being seized, and the noose begin yanked loose before having it thrown over his head. He too was yanked and tumbled blindly away from the place in which he had been frozen in. Soon enough the blindfold was yanked off of him just as he heard the ring of swords being drawn all around them. 

Bertholdt found himself wide-eyed and staring ahead of himself, too stunned for words, in Eren's arms. He was leaning heavily against the shorter boy, but he felt safer now than he had moments before. Bertholdt still couldn't think. “Bertholdt would never do anything like that!” Sasha spoke up again, her attention dawn to a balcony situated to the right of the gallows. From there, Bertholdt could see both King Erwin and Prince Reiner seated with the most dire expressions of their faces. The pair were dressed in their usual finery – in doublets and fine leather boots, Erwin with his crown and Reiner donning his circlet, which was no more than a plain golden band. Around them stood four guards, two by the doors and one situated beside each member of the royal family. Bertholdt felt his heart sink.

“You don't know how kind he is!” Eren protested, scowling, his grip tightening on Bertholdt, which surprised him. “You don't know how much he's done for us!”

“He always feeds us, when we don't have enough food!”

“He's gone days without food for us, you know!” Connie spoke up.

“And lets not forget how blatantly monarchist this guy is.” Ymir chimed in bluntly. It was a good point to raise, even though Bertholdt had never confirmed his allegiance to the crown, he had not denied it either, and Ymir tended to decide things for other people.

“A little ironic, don't you think.” Levi spoke up again at last. He hadn't been given the order to attack, but he waited, his gaze flicking to and from Erwin now and again “a bunch of ratty criminals vouching for the integrity of another.”

“Well, it's true!” Sasha snapped, her own expression steely with determination. Bertholdt couldn't help but notice that none of the his friends had drawn their weapons, although some of them were in plain sight. This was some kind of peaceful protest or negotiation, not a kidnapping, it seemed; which, given the circumstances, was probably their better option. Of course, that was not going to stay the soldier's swords much longer, and Bertholdt could feel it.

“He is one of the better men I know.” Mikasa added, loudly, firmly.

 

 

 

Up on the balcony, Erwin raised his hand, and he couldn't help but see the nervous trepidation filling the paupers' faces from where they stood, crowded upon the gallows platform. Bertholdt looked as if he was not present. The boy was dazed, it seemed. Erwin couldn't blame him. For a moment, the soldiers looked confused, and shifted into a more relaxed posture although they did not completely sheath their swords.

“Father...” Reiner started beside him. “What are you doing. You can't call this off-”

“No,” Erwin continued, regarding his son seriously now “Bertholdt is your prisoner...it is down to you to decide his fate, as well as the fate of his fellows,” Reiner frowned at that, and for a moment, seemed uncertain. “You heard Captain Levi.” He started simply “what they are doing is grounds enough for treason.”

“But-”

“The law is absolute.” Erwin interrupted, frowning at his son. “You and I are the only ones with the right to over-turn the law because we have the privilege to do so.” He explained simply. This was the first time Reiner had been faced with a decision such as this, but it would most certainly not be the last. Erwin could only wish that ruling was as easy as Reiner seemed to think it was, sometimes. “It is not a Right to be abused,” he continued “and it is times like this that you should ask yourself...is it right to spare them? Bertholdt? Could you live with yourself if you did not?”

“They're only defending their friend!” Reiner protested, not loud enough for the crowd before to hear, but loud enough to communicate his confusion.

“They are committing a crime.”

“Well, yes-”

“Bertholdt has committed crimes, that much is certain.”

“He's a mur-”

“This is treason. They are traitors, my son.”

“No, they haven't done anything.”

“Is that so?” Erwin pressed, raising a brow “And Bertholdt?” When Reiner opened his mouth to protest again, Erwin was quick to interrupt “He didn't do anything either. Not really.”

“He killed Berrik,” Reiner snapped “And he tried to kill me.”

“You have no proof that he killed Berrick,” Erwin stated pointedly.

“I saw him.”

“No-one else did,” The King intoned pointedly

“He did.”

“Excuse me, you Highness, your Majesty...” A voice to their right started, quick to attract the pair's attention. A woman stood to their right, he said tied back into a messy pony-tail, and her wide hazel orbs framed in glasses, lined with copper. She wore her uniform, of white trousers and iron breastplate, although it seemed much thinner than the standard, military issue armour. She donned her green cloak, marking her as a member of the Wings of Freedom, from Maria. “Something's been bothering me...”

There was a brief pause before Erwin responded with a simple “continue, Hanji...”

“Well!” She started, brightly, all traces and formality and hesitance disappearing in her excitement “I wasn't around during the initial attack or when that kid was brought to the Throne room – why you did that I don't know - but then I don't really care because that's not the important part-”

“So what's the important part?” Reiner cut in, impatient for her to get to the point. He had a decision to make and the last thing he needed was some ranting lunatic talking his ear off.

“The knife!” Hanji responded unperturbed. 

Reiner raised a brow, prompting Hanji to sigh before continuing.

“From what I heard, Bertholdt's knife was already bloody when he attacked you right?”

“I don't know...maybe,” Reiner responded, sitting further forward in his chair, frowning a little.

“Well, when I heard that, I decided to do some digging – it was a lot of leg-work let me tell you,” she chuckled then, but continued on quickly. She could sense the restlessness in the crowd below. Some already heckling the soldiers on the platform of the gallows below, demanding they get on with it. “I didn't have a lot to go on, so I just looked for people who had been injured recently, in the nearby area.”

“Why nearby,” Erwin questioned, his gaze drawn to the crowd below, although his attention remained upon Hanji herself. “He could have stabbed anyone anywhere and run off.”

Hanji nodded “Right!” She started “But if you'd stabbed someone, odds are, you'd want to get rid of the evidence, right?” Reiner nodded slowly, and she continued “he didn't drop it because he was in danger!” a pause “I mean, that's what I'm inclined to think, anyway,” shee explained, when the young prince frowned “I mean, would you get rid of your only means of protection if you felt threatened?”

A pause “I suppose not...” Reiner conceded the point.

“The blood,” Erwin prompted.

“Oh right,” The soldier nodded, still grinning “So, anyway. The source of the blood!” She shifted then, moving towards the balcony, leaning back against the barrister as she continued, her back to the crowd below “I found a merchant whoo told me that he'd been attacked by, and I quote 'some thieving whore', and had been stabbed for his trouble.” She cleared her throat “He said Bertholdt had broken into his house, but he got stabbed and Bertholdt got away.”

“Bertholdt was fleeing the scene and he wound up on the roof.” Erwin summarised.

“Right,” Hanji nodded. “He probably wasn't trying to kill Reiner at all, although why he thought the roof as a good hiding place I'll never know.”

“So...he wasn't trying to kill me?” Reiner asked, more for clarification than anything else.

“I don't think so,” Hanji said firmly.

“Father?”

Erwin turned his attention to Reiner then, and sat back further into his chair “It's still your decision,” He stated simply, “You can hang him now for an imagined crime, or you can do so for the murder of your friend...of course, I cannot see the justice in killing a man for one when he has been charged with another.”

“What, so if I don't excuse him now, I'll look like I'm just determined to kill him regardless?”

Erwin nodded, once. “Indeed. The people will not like a quality like that in a ruler.”

“And I can't just tell them why I would still have reason to hang him?”

Shaking his head, Erwin replied “It would look as if you were making excuses.”

“So...” Erwin could hardy stand to look at the conflict clearly playing over his son's features in that moment. Bertholdt it seemed, had not been trying to kill Reiner, but if had still also committed a severe crime, by Reiner's count. “If I let him go now...I won't be able to...”

“Not without losing face,” Erwin stated simply.

 

 

 

Below, the crowd waited with bated breath as the Royal pair deliberated amongst themselves. Bertholdt and his comrades – his friends – waited in tense silence. All of their fates hung in the balance. Ymir personally did not particularly want to die, but Bertholdt didn't deserve to die. That much she knew. Why she chose now of all times to develop of conscience she would never know, but it just wasn't fair on the stupid giant.

Eren still held Bertholdt tightly, And Mikasa lingered near the shorter man's side, surreptitiously placing herself between the captain and the other boy. Connie and Sasha stood beside the lever, tense and ready to throw anyone back who so much as approached them...not that anyone had tried to do so for a while.

The minutes ticked by, until at last, Reiner took to his feet, stepping forwards lowly and placing his hands on the finely carved wooden bannister that stood between him and the open air beyond. Bertholdt stared, unseeing, as Reiner glanced over the crowd. For a long moment, he was silent, his gaze narrowed and stern. He looked tense.

“By order of the King,” He started, after drawing in a heavy breath. “There will be no hanging this day!” Reiner hardly sounded pleased by the fact. The crowd erupted into a mess of noise, incredulous, disappointed and some even cheerful. Not everyone liked watching people suffer after all. 

When those words washed over Bertholdt, with that voice, in that moment, Bertholdt finally cracked, only vaguely aware of Mikasa cutting the rope that bound his wrists together. A broken sob burst from his lips, choked and what a relief! The brunette fell to his knees then and at last, the tears fell. Bertholdt shook violent and it was all he could do to hang on to Eren, the other bending to accommodate the movement, although he tried to keep his feet. Eren moved to grip Bertholdt's wrists, almost as if to pry them off.

“Hey!” He heard Eren shouting, and he frowned shaking his head “Look what you've done to him!” Bertholdt choked out an unintelligible protest and shook his head vehemently “I've never seen-”

“No..!” Bertholdt choked out through his sobs, ignoring the crowd and the way his friends had begun to crowd him, wanting to sooth the hysterical boy “ _Shut up_..!” Bertholdt sobbed, managing to yank Eren to his knees with a few good tugs wrapping one arm around the back of Eren's neck whilst clinging to the material at his other shoulder with the other, managing to root the other to the spot and he choked out his sobs “Show-” Bertholdt tried “you _show_ R-Reiner your re-pec-t..!” He could hardly force his words out through his tears.

“Show him..!”

Sighing, Eren took Bertholdt into his arms almost roughly again, and allowed the other to cling to him, desperate and hysterical as he was, muttering over and over again that they had to show their respect..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally planning on having Bertholdt get raped in this chapter, but I thought, on top of everything else, he really didn't need that shit. Not to mention this chapter was going to be long enough anyway. No need to add to that...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, though!


	8. Company.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Annie makes and appearance.

Bertholdt hadn't thought about what to expect after the prince had spared his life. He hadn't intended to think beyond the tightening of his chest as the noose around his neck strangled the life out of him. Even with the distinct lack of stimulation Bertholdt had from where he lay in his dark cell in the bowels of the palace, Bertholdt's mind seem to fail him with every breath. It faltered constantly, and the thought: _I shouldn't be here_. Plagued the brunette's mind. 

Everything looked as it always had. There were no epiphanies, no choirs, no bright shining lights that made Bertholdt smile and see the world in a better light. It looked the same. It was the same. It would have been different, perhaps, if only a little, had Bertholdt died that day. His friends had saved him...but to what end? He had not seen them since that morning. It was entirely possible that they had been put behind bars and made to answer for their own crimes, having brought so much attention to themselves. That would, of course, mean that they were not being kept within the palace dungeons. He would have heard something. 

Now, it was only him, sitting on his cot and waiting in the darkness for the torches to be lit for the night. That was how it went. At a certain point – that Bertholdt assumed was dusk – servants would come down into the dungeons and light the torches, allowing Bertholdt a little light. He didn't need it of course, but it made a change. It was then, more often then not that Mina would appear with a bowl of what Bertholdt could only assume was porridge...although sometimes it was difficult to tell. It didn't always taste brilliant, but Bertholdt figured it might just have been the age of the wheat...either that, or someone was messing with his food. He didn't bother to bring up the fact that his food tasted like sandpaper. He was a prisoner, not a guest. Who cared about what he ate?

Revolting or not, Bertholdt usually ate. He had given up being picky about his food six years ago...not that he was very fussy to begin with. Bertholdt could starve himself, if he wanted to, but saw no point. His friend's risk would be for nothing if he did so, although he could not envision himself making good use of the time they had given him – this cell was undoubtedly to be his home from this point on. Mina had given up trying to talk to him. Bertholdt never responded anyway. What was there to say? Every day was the same, so what was the use in small talk. That said, sometimes she might give him a little news or a juicy piece of gossip, but only if she had any.

It was a conundrum, really. Live a worthless life or die quickly and throw his friend's sacrifice in their faces? Reiner had no more use for him, and he had not even so much as seen Annie – not that he ever expected he would. She'd had little to do with Bertholdlt and Reiner as children, and he had no idea how their relationship had progressed over the years. She had always been reclusive and quiet – maybe even more so than Bertholdt, despite the fact that the Prince's outgoing nature had never seemed to rub off on Bertholdt. It would have been nice to see her, Bertholdt couldn't help but think, if only once. He had no idea what she thought of him now...if anything at all. She was like her uncle – hard to read and intimidating at the best of times. She had Erwin's hard look about her. She wasn't a bad person though...she never did anything unless provoked. 

An empty smile made it's way to Bertholdt's face at the thought. He missed his life – the one before – in the palace. Sure, Reiner had gotten him into a lot of trouble at times, but he had been happy. He'd had his mother and he'd had a warm bed sleeping beside his prince and friend. He'd been well-fed and even learnt to read. Annie was nice, relaxing company, even if she could be scary sometimes. However, sometimes Bertholdt thought even Ymir could rival her ferocity. 

Ymir! Why Ymir? Thinking of her never gave Bertholdt any peace, as unendingly confusing as she was. Ymir had spent years chasing him down in order to steal from him, by orders of the King as it would seem, and all to keep him from leaving the capital. But why? So that he might one day be hanged? Reiner had said that it was by order of the King that he was to be spared, so was it Ymir or was it Erwin that he should be so concerned about? What did Erwin want from him? If anything? That day in the Throne Room...Erwin's reason for keeping him in the city was because Reiner had been upset over Berrik's sudden demise...

It still didn't make sense. 

Why stalk a murderer? Why not locate and arrest him immediately. Bertholdt had been a hapless street urchin four years ago, helpless and subject to the whims of others, easy to apprehend. Why wait four years to charge him with treason rather than go after him with the perfectly good charge at the ready? It couldn't have been his age. Bertholdt had seen younger hanged for less. 

Bertholdt leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees as he buried his face in his hands with a groan. Could it be that Erwin refused to have him killed? Maybe, just maybe the King felt attached enough to spare him? Even that sounded absurd to Bertholdt. Erwin was a man with strong morals and a man of his word. He adhered to the law and rarely altered it...he wouldn't let a criminal roam free and unpunished...would he? But then, whatever for?

Sitting in a cell was punishment, that much was true, but was it enough? Reiner threw the word 'murderer' around enough that people must see him as one. Bertholdt would always maintain his innocence, but whether he did or not would have ordinarily seen him at the end of a rope. Bertholdt still couldn't decide if sitting in a cell for the rest of his life was better than the hangman's noose.

“Please, Princess, you can't go down there!” A voice called, pulling Bertholdt from his musings, somewhat jarringly. Princess? Bertholdt stiffened when he became aware of approaching footsteps, two or three, Bertholdt couldn't quite tell. There was the ring of metal as it clashed and sang with every movement the armour made, but the echo in the dungeons distorted the sound, making is somewhat difficult to get an idea of exactly how many people were approaching. There had been no movement save for Mina's comings and goings, and the change over of the guards when their shifts came to and end for weeks. This was unusual.

When the steps came closer, the echo lessened and Bertholdt was able to pick up a softer tapping on hard leather soles on stone. “I can do what I like,” came the monotonous reply, and Bertholdt's heart leapt to his throat. 

“Prince Reiner has forbidden-”

“Reiner's an idiot,” that same voice interrupted just as the body it belonged to came into Bertholdt's line of sight, in front of his cell and tucking blond bangs behind her left ear with a gloved hand. “Leave me now,” she said, waving a hand airily in the general direction in which they had come. The guards hesitated.

When she did not hear them moving, Annie shifted, turning bodily towards Bertholdt as she turned her head to face the guards behind her. She said nothing, but levelled them with a stern look and narrowed her eyes pointedly. It was enough to spur the two men, wearing Sina uniforms, into turning and leaving swiftly. 

Bertholdt remained silent as Annie turned to look at him. She had grown a lot, Bertholdt knew she had been the one to attend most formal functions in Reiner's place, making public appearances when he was at war. She was short, intense and stand-offish. She stood before him not in the dress he had imagined, but in dark brown boots and trousers, well-fitting and suited for riding, over a white cotton blouse was a red vest and crimson cloak. She had never been one for women's apparel when riding, Bertholdt recalled. Skirts, she said, were impractical in that way. Not to mention hot. She still had a riding crop gripped loosely in one hand. Clearly, she had come straight from the stables.

After a long bout of silence, Annie raised a brow, and the Prisoner's eyes widened a little before he hopped to his feet, more than thankful that his ankle had healed up. “P-Princess- I- your Highness!” Bertholdt fumbled out as he bowed to the woman before him. 

“Glad to see you retained your manners,” Annie comment, to which Bertholdt simple stood and awkwardly brought his hands up to wring them together slowly. Annie regarded him silently for a moment. He could almost see the mental sigh she heaved. “Sit down,” she ordered in her uniquely level tone.

Bertholdt nodded, and practically dropped into his seat. Annie was here. Princess Annie. Princess Annie whom he had grown up with, alongside Reiner and Berrik. “What are you doing here...” Bertholdt began suddenly, trailing off once he realised he had not at all meant to speak aloud “your Highness...” he finished, a little lamely. 

“I got sick of Reiner's whining and decided to come and see you instead,” a pause “it's too dark out to ride any more anyway.”

“Do you still ride Leonheardt?” Bertholdt asked, before he could stop himself.

The blond shook her head before she leant back against the wall behind her in a most unladylike gesture, “we put her down years ago,” the girl admitted, her lips turning downwards ever so slightly “she got sick.”

“Oh..” Bertholdt replied, not knowing what else to say in that moment “she was a beautiful horse...” Annie folded her arms in front of her and looked to the side, down the hall in the direction she had come. Perhaps she was contemplating leaving already? “I mean,” Bertholdt started again, wishing for the first time that someone would be willing or able to spend an extended period of time in his company since he had been left there those few weeks before. “I heard Princess Historia and Prince Armin were brought to Sina...is that true?”

At that, the princess nodded “pleasant enough company, I suppose.”

“No public appearances?”

“They do not want to.”

Bertholdt nodded in understanding. It must have been difficult, to be plucked from their home and taken miles upon miles away. It was easy to see why they did not want to be paraded around like prizes after the war's end. “I remember...meeting Historia once....Reiner wouldn't shut up about how pretty he thought she was.”

Annie let out a huff that Bertholdt knew was a sign as amusement, having known her for a long as he had. She didn't laugh often, but he had always liked it when she did. It made her seem like a much lighter person – more carefree. “That was something,” she started “every time he saw her he'd propose. Or try to at least.”

Bertholdt nodded, allowing himself a little smile, glad to have someone who wouldn't attack him for one reason or another. It was relaxing, to have someone to talk to...properly. “He'd always stutter, or call out just when she was out of hearing range...I felt bad, actually...”

“Really?” Annie questioned, shifting in her place to put a hand on her hip, lips perking up in amusement “getting married or playing with someone else would mean he would have had less time for you.”

“Y-yes, but...” Bertholdt lapsed into silence for a moment, before he sighed “what I thought then doesn't matter now...Reiner doesn't have time for me...he doesn't want to have time for me. I don't blame him, of course I don't...what does that even mean, Annie...” the brunette trailed off, confused.

“You're not angry with him?”

Bertholdt sighed and shifted to once again place his elbows on his knees and he buried his face in his hands, groaning out “Annie~”

There was a sigh “Fine,” a pause “you're really pathetic, Bertholdt,” Annie scolded, ignoring the way the boy in questioned raised his head to stare at her incredulously. It wasn't the first time she had ever insulted him, but that had come out of the blue. “You've always been awful at looking after yourself,” Annie elaborated further.

Bertholdt could only frown. He wanted to protest that no, that was not the case. He had learnt. He had learnt things that Annie never could – never should. He could protect himself...although he didn't always get off without a bruise or two to show for it. Was that what she meant? She always teased him for being 'delicate' and 'fragile' when they were children....but in fairness, Bertholdt had been a runt of a beanpole. “Thanks, Annie...” Bertholdt mumbled indignantly, despite the defeat in his tone.

“Not at all,” Annie countered with a casual nod.

“Annie...” Bertholdt started, only continuing when he saw Annie's eyes meet his own, gaining her complete attention. Her eyes had previously been wandering aimlessly over Bertholdt's cell languidly. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, if anyway, “Why did you come here?”.

“It reeks in here,” Annie said, looking off to the side, pausing to make a show of sniffing the air, and bringing the back of her hand up to her nose as if to block out the smell as he returned her gaze back to Bertholdt. “I can't decide whether or not it's just you.”

Bertholdt could only frown, self-conscious and ultimately unable to do anything about his current predicament. Honestly? He had gone without bathing for a fortnight at least and was living in a dungeon, which hadn't exactly smelt of strawberries to begin with, so if the smell _was him_ , he wouldn't have been surprised. When Annie was met with a wall of silence, she sighed, turned on her heel and left.

Bertholdt had been too bewildered by her course of action to protest, and found himself alone once more, the silence broken only by the sound of Annie departing footsteps as they echoed throughout the dungeon and the short burst of activity from the guards that game with being in the presence of royalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took much longer than anticipated...and is no doubt deeply unfulfilling and short and ultimately disappointing. I had meant to update this weeks ago.
> 
> I do apologise.


	9. Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir talks too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long and it's only short but hopefully this chapter will make a nice change to the rest in any case.
> 
> You may have noticed I decided to keep to 'Hoover' despite my initial resole to go with "Huber." I am just too used to Hoover personally to let it go. It was the first spelling for it I was introduced to so, that it what I tend to go with.

The room was cloaked in silence, the only sound being the semi-regular scrap of paper on paper as Armin turned the pages of the book in his lap. Sometimes it was easy to see that he wasn't paying attention to the words on the page. He had read the old journal so many times the words practically said themselves in his head, and at present, he refused to peruse King Erwin's library at the risk of getting too comfortable. It was of course, a shame. The library was an impressive one, and far bigger than his own in Shinganshina.

The journal itself belonged to the brother of his great grandfather. Being second in line to the throne meant that he had had time to travel – something Armin himself had little time to do himself. In fact, the only travelling he had ever really done outside of his own Kingdom's borders was the trip to Sina itself. He found the world inside the journal fascinating. The man to whom the journal belonged had a was with words that seemed like poetry to the prince's ears. Armin had never seen the ocean, but the way the man described it made Armin feel as if he almost didn't need to – that if he did, he would be disappointed when it was not as the man described it. Of course, Armin knew that if he was ever presented with the opportunity, he would get there as fast as his horse could carry him. The disappointment, if there was any, would still be worth it to see what that man saw.

Beside him, the princess Historia worked quietly on her embroidery, knees bed slightly towards him as she pressed herself into the corner of the sofa, her skirts obscuring her legs from view. She seemed to dutifully ignore Ymir, who sat on the arm of the chair, watching almost intently, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. She looked as if she were beginning to get bored.

Reiner was sprawled across the living chair across from the foreign royalty, staring at nothing in particular, the light of the fire illuminating his features, which looked almost fierce in that moment. For all Reiner's kindness, his face carried strong, but defined angles that caught shadows in a way that made him look more than intimidating. It was no wonder that many of Shinganshina and Rose's soldiers whispered about his terrifying strength on the battle field, which was a great source of pride for the people of Sina. It did not help that his almost golden eyes seemed to imitate the fire into which he was staring without seeing when the light of the flames caught his naturally narrowed gaze.

It was moments like these that made Armin forget that Reiner was actually quite approachable, although he had never met the prince before the war. Historia had, in her younger years, and she remembered him fondly, although she had confided in him that the war must have changed him some. That, or it was that mysterious boy in the dungeons that few seemed to be willing to talk about. All they knew was that he had apparently killed someone dear to the prince. Reiner had sulked about the failed execution for days.

“Stop brooding,” Annie said from her place by the windowsill, perched as she was on the window seat there, upon plush, purple velvet cushions. She wore a simple cream dress, buttoned at the neck with frilled at the sleeves and neckline, her skirt lined with white lace. Her feed were clad in familiar brown boots. Her unruly hair was tied in its usual bun. Annie often refused to have it styled outside of formal occasions. She didn't like people touching her. “You're just being stubborn now.”

“I'm not brooding,” Reiner huffed, frowning as he turned his head to look at Annie. She had yet to look away from the view before the window, watching the activity in the stables below. A boy about their age with a mop of dirty blond hair and an undercut that made him look as if he had two-toned hair was removing a saddle from a horse while the bold boy they had picked up after Bertholdt's failed execution brushed its fur gently. She had forgotten his name, but he was grinning and laughing at something the stable boy said – Jean, she recalled – much to the taller boy's chagrin. “you're the one staring out the window like some...some...miserable person.”

“Witty,” Annie retorted blandly.

Reiner scoffed and frowned deeper “you're my cousin,” he said, turning back to the flames, watching them as they flickered with wild abandon. “You're supposed to be supportive of me, I mean, you could have at least _come_ to the hanging.”

“Because we both want to see our old friend have the life choked out of him,”Annie responded after a beat of silence. 

At that, there was a snicker, and both blonds turned to look at Ymir as she hid her grin behind a hand. “Ymir,” they heard Historia admonish the girl softly, a little frown on her face, blue eyes reproachful.

“Aw, come on,” the servant chuckled, placing a hand on top of the blond's hand with a grin “that's funny,” she told Historia “I've never heard people argue like that over a criminal before. It seems kind of pointless if you ask me.”

At that, Armin frowned “at the risk of sounding rude: nobody _was_ asking you.”

Ymir shrugged “in any case, Bertholdt isn't going anywhere, so what does it matter? He'll rot either way. It'll just take longer now.”

“Ymir!” Historia protested again, shifting to pull her head out from under Ymir's hand “that's a cruel thing to say...didn't you say you knew him?”

At that, Ymir nodded “he's nice enough and we all established that he's too weak and stupid to try and assassinate anyone – let alone his _precious_ Reiner,” she ignored the choked noise that left Reiner then, and the indignant look on his face. She turned to look at the prince then, her gaze narrowed seriously. “You know, he never talked about you, but he was never very good at hiding his connection, or interest in the royal family. I would have been able to tell even if I hadn't been hired to follow him.”

“Which I still don't understand,” Reiner interjected, sitting up in his seat, replacing his feet firmly back upon the ground. “ _He_ won't tell me! I mean, all I managed was having a very _long_ very _one-sided_ conversation with that man.”

Ymir snorted, “you mean shouting match.”

“I'm pretty sure I was entitled to that much,” Reiner snapped pointedly. He missed the way Annie rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the stables beyond the window.

“Maybe, but you were hardly the soul of brevity and grace about it all,” Ymir countered swiftly, folding her arms in her lap and fixing Reiner with a smug smile. “Not very princely of you.”

“Of course not! That's not me!” Reiner retorted passionately, flinging his arm out towards the sofa upon which Ymir was perched, gesturing at the blond at her side “Historia is the very _definition_ of- of _grace_ and _brevity_ and- and _benevolence_ , not me!” Under normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed her embarrassed squeak and gentle blush. As it stood, he was too absorbed in that way Ymir laughed and shifted to throw an arm around Historia's shoulders, much to the princess' embarrassment, he cheeks reddening further.

“Well, my Christa is amazing!”

“Christa?” Armin questioned, blinking confusedly.

“Oops,” Ymir started with a little chuckle, releasing Historia from her hold. “Back in the day, I sometimes had to go to Rose to do a little work here and there, and I met Historia in the market place – in disguise, can you believe it!” She chuckled.

“I-” Historia started up “I just wanted to get away from the castle sometimes...so I used a fake name...” Historia explained. Then she paused “why were you there anyway?”

“Oh,” Ymir started, waving her hand dismissively. “This and that. It doesn't matter now.”

“You were spying,” Armin frowned. It was an obvious conclusion to draw, given the way that Sina seemed to know each and every weakness that Shinganshina and Rose had. It was their armies, not their defences (not to the same extent, anyway) that had kept Sina at bay for as long as they did. “Did you ever go to Shinganshina?”

Ymir shook her head. She did not bother to deny Armin's accusation. Besides, Bertholdt's situation was more than enough evidence of what she was capable of. “No, it was too far for me most of the time. I had to stop going to Rose in the early days of the war anyway because for one, it was too dangerous, and two, I'd _finally_ found Bertholdt.”

“And what,” Armin started again, “he was your primary mission?”

Ymir shrugged at that “I guess,” she said “he made money almost as fast as I could take it sometimes.”

“What?” Reiner questioned tone blank.

“Oh, don't play dumb,” Ymir said, rolling her dark eyes. “You know as well as I do that he was a whore,” she said casually. She resisted the urge to chuckle as the incredulous looks upon both Armin and Historia's faces at the revelation. Clearly they had been in the dark on the matter, and it was no doubt scandalous that such things could be said so casually. Reiner's expression seemed to darken at the mention of the fact, and Annie remained seemingly unmoved. “I heard he was a pretty good one, too.”

Reiner scoffed and looked away, his narrowed gaze landing upon the fire again.

“I mean,” Ymir continued, shifting in her place a little, one foot on the ground now as she rocked momentary on the arm of the chair, much to Historia's mortification, “can't you imagine it, Reiner?” She said, her tone almost teasing.

“Ymir, stop...!” Historia protested, hiding her face in her hands as Armin looked away and quite pointedly lifted the journal up to his face. Ymir, however, listened to the command. She did not, however, cease talking.

“You saw him – imagine that body of his, beneath some pervy guy – touching him and fucking him into the matt-”

Reiner shot to his feet in that instant, his jaw set tightly, as he stormed towards the door, slamming it behind him as he practically fled the room. That was not something he needed to hear. He ignored the way Ymir's cackling laugh seemed to follow him down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it a nice change? I hope it was.


	10. Loneliness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get to Reiner a little bit too much.

It was unbearable, sometimes, to think that he had lost his two best friends – one to a murder everyone seemed convinced was an accident and the other to jail – to mistrust. That said, Reiner had very little to complain about. He had returned from the war not only victorious but a renowned fighter. He was famous for more than just his status, which earned him even more respect. His father had said that war changes people, and Reiner understood that. He took that in his stride, because he knew he was no longer naïve, knew he never could be again. 

When he was at war, he had his first woman. She had been a camp follower; a beautiful brunette with a gentle smile and patient eyes, not to mention gently tanned skin. Some of them men had decided that having spilled a man's blood for the first time warranted the success of another kind in the bedroom. He had been drunk – he couldn't stop touching her hair – if he hadn't been intoxicated he might have said no. He _would_ have said no. 

Now he couldn't remember a thing about her, not her name, not the colour of her eyes, not the sound of her voice. He'd been drunk and she had the most beautiful hair. Such hair. She got him going, of course, and he fumbled. He remembered her chuckling, although what that sounded like he had no idea. He assumed bells, like the way Historia sounded when she laughed. Bells. That woman had told him what to do, how fast to go. She didn't tease him about his inexperience – in fact, she told him that she would make everything feel good for him. She kept her word. 

What he did not need were images of Bertholdt riding a stranger the way she had ridden him that night. He didn't want to imagine Bertholdt panting and moving with every sharp thrust of the man behind him. _Did Bertholdt ever take women-_ Another thing he did not want to think about. The thought of Bertholdt of all people, taking it on his hands and knees with his face buried in a pillow unsettled Reiner more than he could have imagined. Yes, he was well aware of Bertholdt's reputation, but he had never thought about it before now, before Ymir decided to run her mouth.

Reiner groaned a little to himself as he meandered purposelessly through the castle, with no particular destination in mind. He wished he had no concept of what sex was now that his mind was being plagued by images of Bertholdt lying on his back, stuffed with his cock- cock, no not his cock – someone else's! He wished he hadn't seen some of the men at camp go at it. He hadn't blamed them at the time. There weren't always enough women to go around, and not every camp follower was willing to go that far for coin. A lot of them just kept the camp in order for spare change. That said, the idea did fascinate him. He wondered what it would be like to be inside a man, but in the same breath, to imagine doing so with Bertholdt was all kinds of wrong.

With his thoughts as wild as they were, Reiner did not even realise his footsteps, that had previously been muffled by carpet were now tapping gently along the tired flooring and a racket had begin to pick up. It was only when he found himself opening a door and lifting his head to look within did he realise that his feet and taken him to the kitchens. “Well, look who it is!” a voice exclaimed pointedly, and soon enough Reiner found his personal space being invaded by one very forward brunette.

“S-sasha-” Reiner blurted out haltingly, taking a step back.

The young woman watched Reiner intently, brows furrowed and lips pursed. Looking at her now it was easy to see that she had filled out and put a healthy amount of meat back on her bones. In her hands she held a bowl covered with a cloth, her palms covered with flour. She was clean save for the flour on her apron and the spattering of the powdery substance on her old black shoes. She had cleaned up since the trial, donning a white shirt that exposed her shoulders, lined with a gentle ruffle underneath a black waistcoat as well as a long maroon skirt. Her hair was still somewhat a shambles but she looked all together neat for the most part. “What brings you here?” she asked after a tense moment on silence. 

Moving further into the room, Sasha deposited the bowl down onto the nearest available work surface and turned to watch Reiner enter the room, running her hands over her apron in an attempt to tidy herself up. “What,” Reiner asked, somewhat grumpily, “I'm not allowed in my own kitchen?”

“No,” she started, with a little shrug. “But from what I gathered, you don't come down here much these days,” she observed aloud, her hazel eyes falling upon Reiner, who moved further into the room, a frown etched onto his stern features.

“Well, I wouldn't, would I?” Reiner retorted at the sound of a door swinging open filtered in from the next room “I've been at war for three of them,” he did not much care for Sasha's tone, but it was his father's decree that gave her and Bertholdt's friends a pardon for their petty crimes and a place to work. Why that had to be the castle he would never know. But, speaking of war “Your friends, Eren and Mikasa...” He started, taking a moment to register the look on Sasha's face, hoping he had remembered their names correctly. The lack of an incredulous reaction suggested, of course, he had. “They joined the military.”

Sasha nodded “Since they were pardoned, they decided to join...good money, you know?” Reiner nodded. It was only fair that the men and women that risked their lives for their country would receive a higher wage than most. “Not to mention, all those war stories made a huge impression on Eren.”

“And Conner?”

“Connie.”

“Right,” Reiner said, taking a few more steps into the room, frowning. “How is he adjusting?”

“Fine,” Sasha replied amiably, although the tension in her tone was back after a few moments. Since the fiasco in the town square, Bertholdt's friends had not been the easiest people to be around. Not all the time, although he could see they were nice people...it was hard to miss the fact that each of them harboured some level of animosity toward the prince. “He's still worried about Bertholdt, though,” Sasha continued, and for a moment, anger flared within Reiner. 

The thought of Bertholdt made his blood boil at the best of times, but given his recent train of thought, he would rather not have thought about the other man at all. “He's looked after well enough,” although Reiner still believed that Bertholdt still stood a bit too tall.

“You say that,” Sasha huffed, frowning as she moves forward, raising a hand to prod Reiner quite pointedly in the chest. For a moment, she faltered, he face mildly astonished. Reiner suspected she hadn't expected him to be built quite so firmly – even if he was a big man – or she as surprised he allowed her to touch him at all without an immediate reprimand. She poked him a few more times before she schooled her features again and frowned up at Reiner, eyes narrowed pointedly. “You,” she started again, prodding Reiner for emphasis, “don't know that Bertholdt hasn't been eating properly, and Mina can't get two words out of him most days.”

Pursing his lips, Reiner took a moment to simply breath. She was concerned for her friend, but surely she knew that he was the last person she ought to confront about that fiend's well-being. “And what am I supposed to do about it?” He asked, a little more testily than he had intended.

“I don't know,” Sasha admitted with a sigh. It was a stretch talking to Reiner about Bertholdt like this, in the hopes that he might do something to help her friend. She turned for a moment, eyes widening a fraction before she quickly trotted over to the fireplace in order to stir at the porridge within the small pot that hung over it to make sure it didn't burn. “Mina said you were close... he doesn't talk much these days...”

“were,” Reiner stated pointedly. He hardly reacted when a woman came bustling into the kitchen, her arms full over laundry which she was no doubt taking to the laundry room down the hall from the kitchen. She was a fairly stocky woman – not fat – with short brown hair tied into a pony tail. Reiner offered her a smile. “Mrs. Kirschstein.”

The woman blinked for a moment before a gentle smile spread across her face, crows feet becoming more apparent a her eyes narrowed slightly in her joy. “Why, Reiner!” She greeted easily “look at how you've grown,” she observed. This was the first time she had taken a good look at the Prince since he had arrived at the castle. The Kirschteins had come to the castle just before the war began and the elder woman had only heard a tale or two about the Prince's visits to the kitchen being a lot more frequent before the death of his young friend. “You should meet my Jeanny – properly I mean,” she startled as she moved to the island counter in the middle of the room and placed the basket on the counter. “You never had a chance to know him better, but between you and me, I think my Jeanny is lonely...”

“I can think of someone else who is probably lonely,” Sasha added casually from where she was bent over the pot, a wooden bowl now in her grasp, plating up the dish.

Reiner gave her a look but said nothing as Mrs. Kirschtein continued “but I know he was fond of your Marco...such a sweet young man,” she said with a wistful smile “Jeanny can be a bit rude and it was nice that he found someone with so much patience...it's a shame he's no longer with us...”

At that, Reiner couldn't help but chuckle. “You make it sound like he died, Mrs. Kirschtein,” he gave her a little smile and shook his head “he's fine...he was injured during the war and was sent home, but he's in one piece...I received a letter from him a few days ago..he says he's very happy in Jinae.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Kirschtein exclaimed, a had on her chest at her sudden revelation “I should get Jeanny to write him a letter, I don't know why I didn't think of it before.”

“Where's Mina?” Sasha interrupted, stepping up to the chatting pair just as Reiner opened his mouth to respond. It was time to take Bertholdt his meal and no-one but Mina had been granted access, excluding the guards. 

Mrs. Kirschtein frowned “Oh..I don't know...I think she went into town to get some vegetables for dinner...”

Sasha frowned a little but nodded, “I'll take it myself, then.”

“No,” Reiner interrupted, reaching out and taking the bowl from Sasha's hand and plucking the spoon she held from her grasp with his free one. “I'll take it,” he didn't know why exactly he wanted to do this, perhaps to see what Bertholdt was like in his captivity? To check on him? Perhaps even to confirm the other's stance in his mind. He wanted – needed – Bertholdt to be a murderer, needed him not to be some dirty whore. He didn't want Bertholdt's imagined moans and pants in the back of his mind. He needed to see Bertholdt, whether he liked it or not.

“Eh?” Sasha asked, blinking owlishly. 

Without a word, Reiner shook his head and turned to exit the room, leaving the two women behind in stunned silence. It was no secret how much Reiner seemed to hate Bertholdt Hoover.

 

 

The Dungeons were not far from the kitchens, despite being on the opposite side of the castle. Reiner was most definitely not used to the suffocating stench of the cell below. There was a chill in the dungeon that Reiner had become acquainted with only a few times in his childhood, alongside Bertholdt...it had been one of the less intelligent things they had been caught doing. Bertholdt had not gotten away unscathed. 

But, ignoring those distant memories, Reiner sighed, trying to push away the smell of damp and squalor as he went – the dungeons were not well ventilated, so regardless of how well the cells were kept, some smells just did not disappear – he marched down the stairs like a man on a mission, bowl and spoon in hand. He needed this, he told himself over and over. He needed this. He waved off the guards when they noticed him, dismissing them with a somewhat forced smile and telling them he would likely not be long and would prefer not to be disturbed. The guards shared a look – perhaps apprehensive as to why the Prince of all people would want to see that particular prisoner. Still, they did not question it and left soon after. The Princess Annie was one thing – a woman should not have to see the inside of a dungeon – but Reiner had made no indication of ever wanting to look upon Bertholdt again. It was somewhat perplexing.

Steeling himself, Reiner walked further into the dungeons, rounding a corner and stopping in his tracks abruptly, jaw clenched. Narrowed eyes landed upon the prisoner, who appeared to be sleeping, a long and arm hanging over the edge of his crude bed, brushing the floor was the boy lay on his stomach, half dangling over the side. His brown hair was matted and his usually lightly tanned skin was decorated with dirt. Reiner couldn't help but take in the too short shirt that was just as filthy as the rest of him and the ratty trousers. Bertholdt appeared to have banished his shoes to the corner of the cell.

The sight almost made the prince want to wince. He had never seen Bertholdt so dirty not even when he had been initially arrested and detained. It seemed that Bertholdt would rather drink his water than bathe in it. Reiner didn't blame him, not for that at the very least.

Reiner heaved a sigh through his nose and placed the key he had taken from the guards into the lock to open the door and slip inside, before closing it behind him. The guards had worried that Bertholdt might try to make a break for it, but Reiner assured them that he could take Bertholdt down if need be. They did not doubt him then. Since returning from war he had proven more than once to be capable and strong. 

The rattle of the bars as the gate slide shut again brought Bertholdt into awareness, eyes fluttering open listlessly before they closed again, having quickly dismissed the noise. Even in the dull light from the scones, Reiner caught a glimpse of familiar green. “Don't ignore me,” Reiner bit out impatiently.

Immediately, Bertholdt tensed and forced himself up – or rather, tried to. Scrambling to rise as he did, Bertholdt slipped and tumbled off his bed with a dull thud and a grunt. The sight was not unfamiliar and it make Reiner want to laugh, if only a little. Instead, he remained silent as Berholdt scrambled to his knees and ducked his head, kneeling. Bertholdt said something then, but Reiner did not quite catch it, although it sounded like his name. A greeting, he supposed. The words no doubt caught in the prisoner's throat. Bertholdt was panting, obviously rattled and no doubt beginning to sweat.

Reiner was silent for a long while, not because he was angry, but because now that he was there, with Bertholdt, he didn't know what to say. He had come here to see the other, and now that he had, what had been the point? He was furious with Bertholdt, but for once Bertholdt looked too pathetic to bother with. What had Reiner been expecting? To finally beat Bertholdt the way he deserved? To be overcome with desire for the other man? Perhaps, if Bertholdt was not so filthy, Reiner would see wither or not Bertholdt was worth getting worked up about. Perhaps he would see why it was that Bertholdt was rumoured to be a 'good lay'. Ymir wasn't the only one he had heard rumour from. They had floated about the castle since Bertholdt arrived. Perhaps he would see it if he wasn't so furious with his old friend. He hoped that now at least he wouldn't be plagued by the images Ymir had planted in his mind.

“Get up,” Reiner demanded pointedly, breaking the tense silence that filled the room.

Bertholdt hurriedly shook his head, and curled up a little from his spot on the floor.

“Are you telling me 'no' again?” Reiner pressed, through clenched teeth. “Because you know I hate that.”

Bertholdt shook his head and Reiner heaved a sigh, taking a step forward before he leant down a little dropping the wooden bowl to the floor carefully and dropping the spoon into it shortly after, watching as some of it spilled onto the floor and specks met with Bertholdt's trousers. Bertholdt jumped but did nothing, a fist clenched tightly, nervously, at the fabric of his trousers on the knee.

“Sasha tells me you're not talking...” Reiner ventured almost casually as he took a step back.

Bertholdt gasped softly, breathing out “Sasha...?”

“She works in the kitchen now...your...friend, Connie, works the stables, too...” Reiner informed the other. Honestly, he would have thought that Mina told him things like this, but then, if Bertholdt had given up speaking, Mina would likely have stopped trying to make him.

“Mikasa...Eren...?”

“Entered the military...Shinganshina division.” Reiner added, bluntly, making Bertholdt's fingers twitch nervously at the impatience in Reiner's tone. It seemed that Mikasa and Eren would not be around for a while...especially if they ended up being stationed in Shinganshina when Erwin was done with restructuring the military. Maria and Rose had been annexed, although in conditions of their surrender meant they would keep their countries names. Sina was larger than it had ever been, which means that redistribution of men and order of command had to be adjusted so that each countries military units became and worked as one. Erwin had lost more than a few nights of sleep thus far over the matter.

“Oh...” Bertholdt breathed out, obviously disappointed.

Reiner had always liked that Bertholdt was quick to grasp any situation, whether he liked it or not. He was usually quicker than Reiner, although Reiner was always the one to act first. Bertholdt had never really stepped up to the plate, as it were. Bertholdt sat unmoving, and Reiner decided then that he had had quite enough of that. “Eat.”

There was a moment of hesitation before Bertholdt shifted, sitting on the floor cross-legged and bringing his plate up to sit on his lap, slowly bringing the spoon to his lips. He had not met Reiner's gaze even once, he head quite firmly downward, eyes directed to the floor. “Thank...thank you...” He offered tentatively, before he brought the spoon to his lips, taking half a spoonful into his mouth. Bertholdt's shoulders began to quake minutely, and Reiner looked away.

There was another long, tense silence while Bertholdt picked at his food. It wasn't that he hadn't eaten, but rather he had not been eating properly, and somehow, Reiner knew that. Why else would he come by and demand that he eat? It almost warmed Bertholdt's heart. It truly would have if Reiner was not being so cold. 

Scoffing after a moment, Reiner frowned and turned on his heels, marching back to the door and slipping it open, the bars squeaking obnoxiously. Slamming the gate shut, Reiner locked the cell again. “W-wait...!” Bertholdt called, struggling to his feet, porridge abandoned on the floor as Reiner turned around to regard Bertholdt with a frown. He watched Bertholdt approach the bars. Reaching out, Bertholdt's hand closed around the bars “I-” Bertholdt faltered, unsure of himself in that moment “I'm...forgive me-”

Reiner scowled “If you think-”

“No!” Bertholdt blurted out, hesitating again when he realised Reiner seemed somewhat stunned into silence “I'm sorry...please, _please_ forgive me, please...not...not about Berrik...there's only so much I can apologise for that..” Not that he ever had, Bertholdt could not apologise for something he had not done.

“Then what else could you possibly be so guilty over?” Reiner snapped, and when Bertholdt could only open his mouth, hesitant and and weak-willed, as he always had been, Reiner shook his head, turned and left in a quick flurry of movement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well that took WAY longer than expected and I'm really sorry for the wait. This chapter is somewhat shorter than I wanted, but I wanted to get you guess something and I think whatever else I wanted to write would go better in a separate chapter anyway.
> 
> Hopefully things will start heating up soon, although I can promise you nothing.


	11. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sweet dreams and flower arrangements.

_The sun beat down on the city below, blanketing the busy market place in unrelenting heat. This was one of the rare occasions in which there was a fair passing through the city – it clashed with market day, which meant that the city was the busiest it had been in quite some years. Reiner could not remember the last time the fair had rolled into town, horses dragging carts from place to place, horses pulling then hastily on their way. The workers offered small amusements, song and dance, face-painting and games. There was jugging and all kinds of exotic animals from far off lands that they had no doubt collected over the years from their travels to amuse the children._

_Business was thriving in the market that day, due to the fair, pedestrians walking to this stall or that for a quick snack or for something to the quench their thirst. Voices and music filled the air and elated as he was, Reiner couldn't help but turn to Bertholdt and grin,his gaze flicking to Berrik as the ran up behind Bertholdt, letting out a short cry before he launched himself at the tallest boy. Bertholdt cried out as Berrik laughed, just about managing to keep his footing. Bertholdt blushed in embarrassment but wrapped his hands beneath Berrik's legs to hoist him further up his back, effectively choosing to carry the other on his back._

_Berrik was only a little bit taller than Reiner, but they were twelve and Bertholdt always thought that Reiner would one day be the tallest of all of them, given that Erwin was a giant himself. Reiner laughed at the pair, grinning. “Bertholdt, you don't have to carry him,” he said, reaching up to whack Berrik gently on the temple “And don't bully him,” he couldn't help but scold lightly._

_“Aw, come on, you don't mind do you, Bertl?” Berrik said, wrapping his arms around Bertholdt's neck loosely as he leant as far forward as h could manage, forcing Bertholdt to adjust his hold quickly._

_Bertholdt huffed lightly “I'm not Bertl...”_

_“Pfft,” Berrik let out sceptically “then how come Reiner calls you it all the time then, huh?” Berrik asked somewhat indignant. Reiner thought that he was perhaps somewhat offended that Bertholdt seemed to take issue with the shorter boy using his nickname._

_“It's just a thing we do,” Reiner said with a dismissive shrug “I think Bertl thinks it's special or something,” Reiner said with a laugh, which only seemed to make Bertholdt blush more deeply than before._

_“So what if I do?” Bertholdt shot back with less force than he had intended. He had never been very good at arguing with Reiner, if only because he never really wished to upset the blond. Reiner only shrugged and in that moment decided to be merciful to his friend. Berrik was a mutual friend and an important one, who had travelled many miles to be with them that day. Berrik was the son of a great noble lord who kept Erwin's council and was a dear friend to the King as well. It was the reason Berrik had come to meet the prince at all._

_“Anyway!” Berrik started up again, wriggling in Bertholdt's grasp until the boy released him and he fell to the floor, feet meeting the floor with a quiet tap. “We should go before your Nanny figures out we're gone. I want to see the animals over there,” Berrik said with an excited grin, pointing off into the distance, where he guessed the animals to be. It was too crowded to really get a good look at the surrounding area. It was in moments like these that Reiner wished he was older – taller. Then he'd be able to see anything he wanted._

_“I-I don't know...” Bertholdt protested faintly, eyeing the crowd around them “we might get separated...” Berrik looked distinctly unimpressed, but that did not deter Bertholdt in that moment “maybe we should go find nanny after all...” Reiner and Berrik laughed grinning._

_“Oh, come on,” Berrik yelled, reaching out to rest his forearms on Reiner's shoulder, the angle somewhat awkward due to Reiner's slightly taller stature “we're twelve – it's not like we need her to hold our hands or anything!”_

_Reiner shrugged a little “we're only crossing the road, it's not going to take long at all,” Reiner reasoned. Bertholdt's brows knit together in worry, glancing behind him for a moment, looking for their carer. Reiner had begged his father to see the fair that morning, and he didn't really want to ruin the blond's day, Reiner knew that. He knew Bertholdt would do anything for him if he wore him down enough._

_His attention turned away, Reiner and Berrik shared a look before they grinned almost conspiratorially at one another. Reaching out, Berrik gave Bertholdt a pointed shove, yelling “you're it!” before he turned and fled, flitting through the crowd with staggering ease. Bertholdt whipped around, and gave chase – seemingly out for revenge. He struggled a little through the crowd, but Berrik remained in his line of sight all the while._

_Reiner was the last to follow, chuckling to himself. He was glad to have successfully distracted Bertholdt from his worries for the time being. The boy was such a worry-wart that the prince thought it a miracle he didn't look like an old man._

_Reiner was soon torn from his musings when there was a desperate whinny from a horse, a crash and shocked screams – one of which was very quickly Bertholdt's. The crowd parting just enough for Reiner to see Bertholdt retracting out-stretched hands. The sight stopped Reiner in his tracks, turning pale.There was more shouting, which caught Reiner's attention, recognising the authoritative tone of the city guard. Panting Reiner scowled and forced his way through the crowd, tears beginning to prickle at his eyes._

_Breaking through the crowd, Reiner barely paused to look at the sight before him. Berrik lay in the road,the pavement stained with his blood, nearby guards crouched around him, inspecting the body, searching for a pulse – anything. Somehow, Reiner knew, Berrik was gone. Bertholdt still had his back to Reiner, staring, frozen in place._

_Both the young boys were pale, both shivering and frightened and Reiner more than a little angry – he felt betrayed. Reiner lurched forwards then, not at Berrik, but at Bertholdt, taking hold of the boy's shoulder, forcing the other boy to face him. Reiner shoved Bertholdt, and he stumbled back with a sharp gasp._ “What did you do?!” _Reiner yelled,_ “why would you do this?!” _Reiner couldn't believe that Bertholdt, sweet, kind Bertholdt could do this time him – to Berrik._

_At that, Bertholdt seemed to blink himself out of his daze, eyes wide with confusion “W-what?” He asked, tone weak with shock. Reiner's scowl only deepened when he saw Bertholdt take an unease step back. Bertholdt' breathing rattled in his chest._

_“You!” Reiner yelled again,_ “you never liked him!” _Reiner drowned out Bertholdt's protests with his next words_ “you're _jealous!_ ” _Reiner cried out, voice wavering as the tears began to flow. Reiner couldn't tell whether they were fuelled by rage or sorrow, but all he knew was that he hated Bertholdt for this._ “you've _always_ been _jealous!_ ”

_By now, Bertholdt was well aware of the eyes upon him, shocked and condemning, even concerned. The boy sobbed, realising, somewhat belatedly that some of the guards were already advancing on him. He whimpered, glancing between them and Reiner – hurt._

_“Arrest him!” Reiner cried, voice thick with anger and pain, lacking the natural authority his voice usually carried._

_Eyes widening, Bertholdt, took several steps back, jumping away from a guard when he realised that the man was reaching out to take him by the arm. Bertholdt ran._

__

__

__Lurching upright, panting breaths filled the room, Reiner running his hand through sweat-soaked hair, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees and he crossed his legs, trying to regain his footing. It'd been a long time since he'd had that nightmare, the war having taken up most of his thoughts and dreams. Running into Bertholdt again had only brought those old memories – although to as old as he probably would have liked, wishing they could have faded and been forgotten – back into the forefront of his mind._ _

__It felt in that moment that Reiner's life was meant to be painted red. He'd lost one of his most dear friends to another, pushed into the path of an on-coming horse and carriage. He still remembered the sound the cart had made when it rolled over his friend, the wheel crashing against the pavement after having broken too-young bones. Reiner shuddered. He never forgot the sight of Berrik's blood against the pavement, nor the sound of war cries and the blood of his enemies._ _

__He wondered if his future would be filled with much the same thing; more blood, more pain and more death. He had been lucky, in his time away, that he had not had to say goodbye to another dear friend. He wished for Marco's warmth, his voice soothing him when he awoke from a nightmare, from the time they had met as children to the camps during the war. The memory of Marco's care during the night forced the remembrance of Bertholdt pressing his lips to Reiner's forehead and wrapping Reiner in a warm embrace when they were children, quick to send him back to sleep after a nightmare._ _

__Reiner let out a sardonic chuckle, breaking the silence that filled his chamber that night as he hid his face from nothing but the moonlight seeping through his window on the far side of the room, blinking away tears that slipped from his eyelashes to the blanket draped over his legs. He couldn't help but raise a hand to grasp at his arm, as if trying to chase away the warmth with an embrace that wasn't there._ _

__

__

__“This is fucking bullshit, Erwin,” Levi said, from his place in an armchair beside the window, a book closed in his lap. He had long since given up on reading the words, despite his interest in the novel. “It's three in the morning,” the saying 'it is always darkest before the dawn' had more truth to it than one would think in the literal sense of the phrase. The study was brightly lit and chased away the shadows to the point that Levi found it somewhat difficult to see the view beyond the window at all._ _

__Erwin sat at his desk, hair fallen out of it's usually pristine appearance with the amount of times he had run his hands through it during the course of the day. The King had not even attended court earlier that day, seeing his paperwork as more of a priority. For some unfathomable reason, Levi had seen fit to spend most of his time in the company of the King, making sure the man didn't die because he overworked himself. He had also taken to seeing Hanji once or twice a day a she, like the King, had taken to locking herself away for days on end._ _

__Although Levi had been an enemy of Sina and it's people during the war several months prior, he had known of Erwin and the tales of his intelligence and had, once, gotten a copy of Erwin's battle plans during an infiltration mission by one of his more skilled soldiers. They had been brilliant – almost fool-proof, Levi realised when they had gone to battle the next day. Erwin had also made a lot of contingency plans judging by how badly the battle had gone for Maria that day. Still...more people had survived than Erwin had undoubtedly hoped._ _

__Seeing the man up close was interesting enough to keep his anger at the man and his kingdom at bay. Even the annexing of his nation did not infuriate Levi as much as it should – perhaps because he did not care as much as would be deemed appropriate. Levi had lived many years in the service of the military, and before that, Maria's underground. He had seen a lot of death and saw that there was to be no glory found within it._ _

__Erwin made a vague hum of acknowledgement, but said nothing as he flipped through a few papers and made corrections to a number of other documents. Levi scowled. That man was in desperate need of a shave. “You mother was a hamster,” Levi stated bluntly._ _

__Erwin hummed and said nothing._ _

__“You're the son of a whore – and I don't mean your mother,” Levi said, unimpressed with Erwin's despondency._ _

__Another hum._ _

__“Your son is abdicating his right to the throne and giving it to Annie and becoming a eunuch.”_ _

__A hum._ _

__“Oh, for fuck's sake Erwin!” Levi shouted in annoyance._ _

__Then there was a laugh and Levi frowned, narrowing his eyes on the blond man, who sat back in his chair with a smirk on his face, eyeing Levi in amusement. “I couldn't resist.”_ _

__“I think I preferred it when you were quiet,” Levi snapped, sitting back I his chair and folding his arms loosely over his chest, “and wipe that stupid ass look off your face.”_ _

__The look was gone a moment later when there came a knock at the door. Erwin frowned and glanced at Levi who sighed and pushed himself up fluidly off the chair and moved over to the door, opening it and stepping aside to allow their guest into the room. “Father,” Reiner said as he entered, glancing at Levi as he went. He wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of his father being in a room alone with a foreign soldier, particularly one as fierce as Levi. “I thought by now you would be asleep.”_ _

__“So did I,” Levi muttered, but with a shared glance between the King and the soldier, Levi nodded and left, closing the door behind him._ _

__For a moment, Reiner looked decidedly perturbed by the action, but stepped further into the room when his father gestured for him to do so, standing in front of the desk where his father worked, the man's full attention now on his son. “What is it?” Erwin asked, his tone as gentle as his deep baritone would allow._ _

__“I just...” Reiner started with a shrug “I had a bad dream...that's all.”_ _

__“And you wanted to talk about it?” Erwin responded simply, brow raised._ _

__Reiner shook his head intently, before running a hand through it with a sigh “No, no...” he started “just...I want to be in someone's company...and since you're already awake...”_ _

__Erwin nodded. Reiner's nightmares had risen in quantity when Berrik passed, but with the war, it was not unsurprising that Reiner would return home with a few new scars. It was one of the things Erwin would truly regret – allowing his son to go to war. However...it would be something for Reiner to learn from all the same. It would make him a good leader...to know pain, to bear it and suffer with his men, to know what war is and what it can do to people. “Then I have a question for you,” Erwin said at last._ _

__Reiner blinked, wrapping his robe around himself more tightly as he watched his father “yes?”_ _

__“Do you like flowers?”_ _

__Reiner frowned, obviously puzzled “what?”_ _

__“Flowers,” Erwin repeated, do you like them?”_ _

__“I suppose,” Reiner replied after a moment of hesitation, “is this one of your metaphors?”_ _

__At that, Erwin smiled soothingly “humour me,” he started, raising a hand for a moment as if to beg indulgence. Reiner moved closer to Erwin's desk, but did not sit. “You have a flower – a beautiful one – in your hand,” He paused, continuing only when he received a nod of understanding “before you stands someone demanding that flower, even though they have several just like it,” Erwin explained, his tone giving nothing away, “they threaten to push you down and take it. Do you give it back?”_ _

__Reiner would have answered immediately, but this was his father, and simple yes or no answers were rarely what he sought. “I don't see why I shouldn't,” Reiner replied, but continued “what makes this flower so special?”_ _

__Erwin smiled at that, pleased to know that his son knew to search for more information – it as the mark of a good king – to care about the details. “It is the most spectacular of all,” Erwin continued seamlessly “but the other flowers look wilted in comparison, and you can see that nothing good would come of you returning that flower. They will pluck its petals until there are none and it is made useless.”_ _

__The prince wanted to know how exactly a flower would be made useless, unless it died before it could be used in a medical remedy of some kind. Flowers had very little use to Reiner anyway. “Then..I suppose I would keep it,” Reiner replied, with a slight frown._ _

__“Where?” Erwin asked, quickly; eagerly._ _

__“In my house.”_ _

__“What if you are gone?” Erwin pressed “and the door is not locked?”_ _

__“Then I would put it in the garden,” Reiner replied with a little shrug, glancing towards the window on the far side of the room. The sky was no lighter than before, “with the other flowers.”_ _

__“Any flower can be discovered after a time, even in our garden,” Erwin reasoned with a casual shrug of his own._ _

__“Then-” Reiner started, before he paused to throw his head back and groan in frustration for a moment before turning his gaze back to his father “what's the point you're trying to make exactly?”_ _

__“Bear with me,” Erwin replied coolly, ignoring his son's irritated huff. Reiner had always hated his father's puzzles. “What would you do to save the flower, if neither your house or your garden are safe?”_ _

__Sighing, Reiner folded his hands across his chest “Then I suppose I would take it somewhere else,” he responded, somewhat impatiently “somewhere no-one would think to look.”_ _

__“Where?” Erwin asked?_ _

__“I-” Reiner shook his head, “the forest?”_ _

__“Similar to a garden,” Erwin pondered aloud, raising a brow at his son as he rested his chin upon his closed fist, elbow propped up but his desk._ _

__“Yes,” Reiner said in agreement, his tone much more certain this time, “but wilder.”_ _

__“Much riskier for the flower,” Erwin argued simply “what if an animal were to find it?”_ _

__Reiner brought a hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, resisting the urge to sigh again “do I have another house in this metaphor?”_ _

__The king paused for a moment, before he nodded, “You do.”_ _

__“Then I would keep it there!” Reiner said, his frustration evident in his tone “they can't know where that house is if it's a secret, right?”_ _

__“I suppose not,” Erwin said simply, giving nothing away. He did not mention that most things could not remain a secret for long, but, he supposed Reiner would realise that soon enough if he hadn't already._ _

__“Does that satisfy you, father?” Reiner asked, glad when all Erwin did was nod._ _

__“Yes,” He said, moving to clasp his hands together on the desk then “what was it that you wished to speak with me about?”_ _

__Reiner shook his head and ran a hand through his hair “It's...well,” the blond shook his head “never mind,” he finished and turned to leave, heading towards the door “Goodnight, father.”_ _

__Again Erwin nodded, “Good night, Reiner,” he said quietly, waiting until his son was at the door before he spoke again, “I'm thinking of changing the flower arrangements.”_ _

__Reiner looked at him then, over his shoulder, frowned and stated “I swear if all that was about the flowers in the hallway I will have you assassinated.”_ _

__Erwin simply leaned back in his chair and smiled, almost playfully. “Goodnight.” he said again, and Reiner scoffed, exiting the room and leaving Erwin alone at last with his thoughts._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That took WAY longer than expected, but it was kind of a difficult chapter to write, plus I have found myself to be way too tired lately. Working on that though. I promise. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed the chapter and that it gave you some food for thought.
> 
> Thank you for all your support so far!


	12. In Sickness and in Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt is not at his best, but he does find comfort in the arms of a particular blond.

A wheezing cough filled the cell, and a chill sank into Bertholdt's bones as he lay curled up on his cot, the hard wood doing nothing to sooth his aches and pains. He had felt it creeping up on him – the sickness – although he had not thought much of it at the time. He had thought eating would stave it off...but it was too little too late. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen a person, although it cant have been more than a day. Bertholdt had not even the strength to sit up, to see if someone had dropped off any food. The damp cold and filthy stick of the dungeons did nothing or his coughing or his head. Bertholdt could hardly keep his eyes open. Honestly? He was surprised he had remained as healthy as he did so long, or he would be, had he the strength to think on the matter.

Bertholdt didn't have a blanket, sanitation was lacking, and the walls smelt of musty mould, no doubt finely aged over the years. The soldiers, Bertholdt was quick to learn, never really stayed in the dungeons for more than an hour at a time, with regular shift changes, and even then, they hardly patrolled most of the dungeon corridors. Bertholdt thought he had stopped smelling, but inbetween being unable to breath through his nose, Bertholdt's renewed senses would take in the aroma, and he would gag violently.

The next time Bertholdt awoke, he felt something cool on his forehead and his body weighed down by something he could not lift for the life of him, wanting nothing more than to get it off his burning body. He felt too hot, he couldn't see, couldn't hear. Time passed in a haze of colour and noise and burning flesh and blistering cold. Bertholdt tried to speak sometimes, although of what and to who he could never say. He saw people around him, but he was never lucid enough to put a name to the face.

Black hair, blond, blond, blond, brown. Green eyes, grey, brown, blue. Bertholdt even imagined Reiner's beautiful, unique honey-like gaze. He had smiled, Bertholdt remembered and tried to reach out, but something took a hold of his wrist and lay his arm back down on the bed, mumbling words he did not understand. Beyond a helpless moan, Bertholdt did not protest and was quick to fall asleep.

The fire in his throat was sometimes quelled by a glass being pressed to his lips and water sliding down his throat. More than once he had choked on the liquid in his haste to get it down.

Some nights, he would wake, without the strength to open his eyes, to the feel of a hand running through his hair, occasionally catching a knot, but he never complained, and those hands were always gentle. That was, until the night he awoke, his mind, clearer after several days of clouds across his memory and cotton in his ears.

At first, Bertholdt simply lay there, feeling that hand in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead and occasionally wiping at the sweat that settled on his brow during his fever. Bertholdt let out a pleasant sigh, turning and leaning towards the touch, his eyes fluttering open slowly. At first his gaze met the sight of a thigh, clad in deep green trousers, the candlelight lending them light. In Bertholdt's addled mind, he couldn't help but be reminded of a forest fire.

“Ah,” someone began, his tone low, familiar, authoritative even as he spoke in a murmur; “good morning, Bertholdt,” Bertholdt's gaze shot upwards and was, for a moment, overcome with dizziness, closing his eyes for a while as the churning in his stomach calmed. That voice, despite the years gone by, still did horrible things to his nerves. He opened his eyes again when that hand slipped from his hair and rested on his shoulder.

“Your...Majesty...?” Bertholdt began, eyeing Erwin where he sat, perched on the side of the bed, the candlelight illuminating his face and covering it in contrasting, harsh shadows. Bertholdt's voice was raspy from disuse and rough from his coughing and sore throat. Bertholdt still felt like he ached everywhere. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Erwin said, resting his hand on Bertholdt's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You gave your friends quite a scare.”

Bertholdt was slow to react, blinking dumbly before he frowned, “I was...sick, wasn't I?”

Erwin nodded, gravely “terribly so,” he told Bertholdt “the doctor thought you were not going to make it,” but then he smiled “but you proved him wrong, and for that I am glad.”

That gave Bertholdt pause. He did not know how to respond to the sentence, and instead chose to look up to the ceiling, unable to look Erwin in the face, feeling inexplicably unworthy to do so. His brows furrowed after a moment. “Where..am I?” he asked, for his realised he was not in his cell, and more over he was in a bed – a real bed – with thick blankets and a delightfully soft pillow. The sensation felt alien to him now, the prospect of a bed. He hadn't really slept in one for years. He had used them, yes, but never really slept in them. Even then the pillows were thin and the bed sheets were coarse and rank with sex.

“You are in one of our guest rooms,” Erwin explained slowly “it was easier for you to be placed hear than have to make a bed around you in the servants quarters,” that would explain he finery of the bedposts and the curtains that wrapped around them, keeping them open. “I fear you are too tall for those beds now, anyway.”

Frowning, Bertholdt, shifted onto his side and placed his arm on the bed trying to push himself up, only to be forced down again by the older man. “Your Majesty...” Bertholdt whimpered pathetically in his broken voice. “It is not my place-”

“Your place is where I say it is,” Erwin said pointedly, perhaps more harshly than he had intended, judging by the way Bertholdt visibly flinched at the tone as he lay on his side, gaze fixed firmly on the pillow beneath his head. Sigh inaudibly, Erwin began running a hand through Bertholdt's hair for a moment, idly tucking his locks behind his ear, although they failed to remain in place. “You will remain here for a few days,” Erwin explained, his tone softening again, “and then you will be moved to the servant's quarters.”

“Why are you doing this?” Bertholdt asked quietly, closing his eyes to the sensation of Erwin's fingers sliding soothingly through his hair. It had been a long time since he had felt such a soft, and dare he say, sincere touch. He did not see Erwin's small smile.

“Your friends came to me frequently with news of your declining health and disinclination to eat,” he explained slowly, quietly, Bertholdt turn his face further into his pillow, as if ashamed of his behaviour. “You were a good boy,” Erwin explained, “and now you are a fine young man.”

“No, I'm not...” Bertholdt argued, his protests muffled slightly by his pillow. “Everyone thinks I'm a murderer...”

Erwin chuckled some, “no,” he whispered softly “no-one thinks that of you.” No to mention one other thing, “and more over, you do not do well in the dark...that cell was detrimental to your health.”

Bertholdt opened his eyes, brows furrowing as he looked up at Erwin with a mixture of scepticism and curiosity, “But Reiner-”

“Needs to believe you are,” Erwin interrupted, “or at least I think that is the case,” he explained slowly “I think at the time, he truly believed you did kill Berrik...and over the years, he continued to do so out of stubbornness, if only because he sought someone to blame.”

“And he picked me...” Bertholdt frowned.

Erwin nodded “I know he is like a brother to you,” it was fairly obvious that Bertholdt still felt very strongly toward Reiner, despite all that had happened, and despite the way the other had treated him. “I have seen it in the way you look at him, that you love him very much.”

At that, Bertholdt's heart clenched, “but I am no longer his friend,” he prisoner said as he closed his eyes again, in an effort to stem the tears that burned at his eyes, wanting more than anything to be free. “You're the one who gave the order to stop my execution...”

Erwin sighed, audibly this time, “no,” he offered quietly “I left the decision up to Reiner.”

Bertholdt's eyes opened then, wide with disbelief, and he was quick to sit up, unconsciously reaching for Erwin and clinging to his shirt when a wave of dizziness hit him. Erwin allowed it, even doing so far as to shift and wrap his arms around Bertholdt to steady him. He held Bertholdt close even as Bertholdt's breathing steadied and he began to speak “Really?”

Erwin nodded as best he could, chin resting upon Bertholdt's head, a feat made possible by the younger man's hunched form. “Yes indeed,” Erwin stated, holding Bertholdt more tightly when Bertholdt fell silent before a sob wracked his body and he quivered in his disbelief.

Bertholdt couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief, where his forehead was pressed against his chest, “but why...?” Bertholdt whimpered, confusion evident in his broken tone “he does not look at me with kindness..!”

“Hush,” Erwin said, raising a hand to run his fingers through Bertholdt' hair again, noting the desperation in Bertholdt's tone, “I do not know if he will ever come around,” he said softly. Erwin was always on for honesty, which didn't make him apt for comforting others, “but treat him kindly as you always have. Live, eat and sleep in comfort, for him; as you always have.”

Bertholdt remained silent, his sobbing subsiding quickly as his nerves calmed. He didn't mind Erwin's words. He always trusted them to be true. Erwin had never been unkind before, not to him. He had never deliberately led anyone astray. 

“I cannot offer you much but my protection,” Erwin whispered into Bertholdt's ear, “I know of your reputation and so do many others...come to me directly if you encounter any problems. You will not be returning to your cell when you are recovered, but you will be working here...not completely free of your sentence, but you can roam the grounds as you see fit.”

Bertholdt nodded, “and I'll work..?”

“Yes,” Erwin offered simply “you will help with whatever needs to be done.”

“But, Reiner...?”

Erwin frowned a little “he is not completely happy with the arrangement, but I do not believe he would rather you waste away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet that wasn't the blond you were expecting, hm?
> 
> Sorry, it's kind of a brief chapter, but I just wanted to get something out there for all my lovelies. Thank you or reading and I hope you enjoyed it! I really appreciate all the support.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first SnK fic, so...I apologise if the character seem a bit off, but I am working on it, I swear!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it all the same. 
> 
> I really am making this up as I go along...I only have a general idea for a plot, so if you feel like shooting ideas at me, go right ahead. If you like.


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